


Fire and Ice

by Opo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Courtroom Drama, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fantasy, M/M, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Mages (Dragon Age), Nobility, Post-Dragon Age II, Romance, Swordfighting, Swords, Swords & Sorcery, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 49,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28604070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opo/pseuds/Opo
Summary: None of us ever start out as who we end up to be, and the Inquisitor is no different though history may have forgotten that they were also just like everyone else at one point. He may had started out as someone who just happened to be in the very worst place at the very best time, but by the end of it no one would forget his name or his legacy. Nor would he forget those he worked closely with.From a distance even his closest companions could forget that he was like them. Seeing him change from a hardened fighter on the field to charming an entire court predisposed to loathe him cut him out to be a most intimidating and surreal figure. Pair that with the fact that he had a glowing freaking hand and, well...  But there was more to him and he loved and hurt too.~Who the hell knows if this summary does any of this justice, frankly I hate these things and never have been terribly good at them. Just give it a read and let me know.~
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	1. The Beginning

The beginning was a blur if he were to be honest. A great, big, green blur. Faintly he remembered making some quippy remarks in the beginning and telling anyone that would listen that he most certainly was _not_ anyone any sort of divine would send – he was fairly certain you had to believe in a divine, _any_ divine, before that sort of thing happened. Perhaps an odd sentiment coming from an elven mage, but there he was – the sceptical elven mage, believing only what he could see and prove.  
  
As it turned out, deities were a bit hard pressed to prove their existence. And they thought the living had pride – at least they bled and pissed and spat all over the place. Voila, proof.  
  
The tone became decidedly sombre rather quickly however and he quickly learned that what was needed was not his sarcastic remarks. He had never encountered a situation before that could not benefit from some levity and though he was certain the whole “world coming to an end” bit would stand to have a few more jokes, it very quickly became apparent that it was not his place to joke about it.  
  
That luxury was afforded to Varric predominantly, and then also to Sera once she came about. From what he had read of Varric’s tales and heard from the legends, the Champion of Kirkwall was also a rather sardonic character. He wondered if she had simply never been required to be serious or if she just hadn’t cared when people looked at her disapprovingly. He was willing to wager it was the latter option. But it’s a bit different when you live in a city falling to chaos with a fancy town home versus when you live in an active refugee camp where most people were afforded tents and cots at best, and the rest slept on the floor.  
  


Plus it probably felt a bit different when you were facing corrupt, crazy politicians versus an evil immortal magister bent on destroying the world as you knew it. Had there been any doubt of his intentions before, they were long gone after what happened at Redcliffe.  
  
Actually now that he thought about it, that was probably the biggest difference between him and the other who had apparently been considered for this Inquisitor title and the trials they faced. The history books would likely tell tales of the personal sacrifices that Hawke had made but for his, that would largely be silent. So overwhelming was his role in this madness. Even his own jovial spirit had quieted from the weight of it all and instead he saved his jokes and his joy for the more quiet times.  
  
Gods did he ever hope they were finally at quieter times. Sitting on the ledge of the stairs, one leg drawn up to his chest and the other dangling down as he looked down upon the activity of the main square a part of him believed they had. The other part however could not see the milling about of the healers and the surgeons, the soldiers and the workers, without remembering with all too much clarity the sound of screaming and the smell of burning bodies. He had believed then too that they had finally come upon a time of quiet and peace. Then came the journey of fire and ice.  
  
If he were honest though there was something different about this place, the place Solas had allowed him to lead the people to, whispered conversations during patrol to navigate the way. How many nights had the two elven mages taken patrol in an attempt to conceal the fact that it was not the one with the glowing hand who magically knew the location of this place? He could almost still feel the burn of the icy air as he memorised every detail of the path Solas had laid out, so afraid of forgetting that he sometimes went a full day without rest. How he had not collapsed through the journey he didn’t know and didn’t dare think on too deeply. It had felt as though a force beyond himself had given him the energy to keep going, to keep pushing, despite the fact that his body was still healing and his mind still reeling.  
  
He shook his head, catching sight of his lithe frame as he bent his head and ran his marked hand through his dirty blonde locks, shining bright gold in the sunlight. Hazel eyes betrayed him as they shut, leaving him engulfed in the thoughts that plagued him for just a split moment, before he let out a strangled frustrated grunt and pushed himself to standing abruptly. That had been enough to catch the attention of a few onlookers, not the least of which Scout Harding and his Knight-Enchanter trainer Commander Helaine.  
  
Like leaves on the wind a memory crossed his mind where someone had muttered that he must be happy he was being trained by another elf. He remembered blinking at the comment though for the life of him he couldn’t remember who had said it; even then he had to take a moment to remember that ah yes, he was an elf. An elf surrounded by humans and being hailed as the Herald of Andraste, saviour to them all, but an elf still.  
  
Flashing the two a hint of a smile and giving a quick bow, he turned on his heel and retreated back into the keep. His trainer would certainly be wringing the emotions that sometimes overwhelmed him later, but that would come then. Today, however, was his day of rest. Which he absolutely loathed. Rest meant thinking and thinking wasn’t exactly…helpful. At least not when there wasn’t an immediate concern consuming his thoughts. Newly arrived to Skyhold and with people still settling in, the only real concern was when the rest of the furniture would arrive so they could stop sitting on the crumbling furniture still found within the walls.  
  
Perhaps he would continue to clear out the watch tower. Yes, that would help. He had picked the mages to form an alliance with – it had been the first choice he felt had truly been up to him and he had following his instincts on a whim though who truly knew if it had been a wise idea in the end – but he appreciated the work of the templars that followed him and aided the Inquisition. As a result, he was dedicated to giving them their own tower so that they might have their own place in a castle otherwise overrun with mages.  
  
The fact that he was essentially sticking the templars in a tower while they were surrounded by mages wasn’t entirely lost on him. Truly he just hoped that it wouldn’t get recorded in the history books as a slight. “And then the elven mage stuck the templars into a tower to give them a taste of their own medicine.” Pah! That was the last thing he needed.  
  
At first people had fussed over him lifting the fallen beams and rocks – actually _fussed_! It was like they had forgotten he had just nearly killed himself fending off an evil magister and his pet archdemon just to give them a chance at living – and then _lived_.  
  
He had survived a literal avalanche. He could move some damned rocks.  
  
Either way they seemed to leave well enough alone one day after he had taken off his shirt under the sun to help clear debris. It could have been the fact that they finally noticed how sculpted his body had become over time – he most certainly had _not_ looked like this at the start – or the growing number of scars that littered his body telling the tales of the battles he had lived through that finally shut them up. Frankly he didn’t care to find out. All that mattered was that they finally let him be.  
  
Eventually he retired to his room for the night, dirt and sweat clinging to his half naked form as he strode through the main hall of the castle, the brilliant blue shirt he had started off wearing crumpled in his hand. Some people whispered as he went by, others simply gawked. Now though he was too tired from hauling lumber and rocks to care, the burning thoughts but embers in his mind now. Splashing some water on himself as he stood on the balcony, he rubbed the dirt from his face and hair.  
  
Bracing his hands on either side of the bucket he looked down at his rippling reflection as his hair dropped water into the bucket. How strange he looked to himself. He had never been one to really stare at himself in the mirror but now he couldn’t help but do so. This was the person they hailed as Inquisitor, as saviour? This man with a deceptively thin body and sharp, angular cheekbones with a slightly squared jaw? The non-descript blonde hair and hazel eyes with sweeping elvish marks over his cheeks? Over these last few months – was it just months? – his body had hardened and his facial features become more angular, his cheeks thinner. Between the constant fighting and the not very constant food that had been bound to happen. But staring at himself in the light of the full moon, the water distorting his reflection every now and then as water dripped into the bucket…was this seriously who everyone looked to for answers?  
  
Pushing himself back up he shook out his hair and looked back to the snow laden mountains. It was cold, bitterly so, but for a moment he relished it. The bite of the cold brought him to the here and now, reminded him of who he needed to be. Turning his gaze to the fire inside his room however he allowed himself to melt a bit, the coy grin he had worn without much end before all this returning to his lips. Perhaps it was time to let the snow melt a bit. With that thought he strode back into the room, leaving the bucket to freeze outside as he closed the doors and let the warmth of his fire soothe his tired body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I would take this chance to thank you if you wound up reading all that. I know it might not be necessary for some of you, but I wanted to give you all a bit of back ground so that you knew when this story started as well as some of the decisions that were made. Anyway let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy!


	2. The Demon You Know

Do you know what they don’t tell you about positions of power? They come with homework. Not that Mahanon was particularly unaccustomed to that, he had spent years studying under his Keeper after all when he had been with his clan, but studying conjuring and studying court were decidedly different.  
  
While they set up Skyhold he got to establish for the first time in however long a bit of a routine. Spend the day with the soldiers and aiding them in whatever endeavours they were absorbed in under Cullen’s tutelage, learn as much of the spy routes and networks (both their own and not) as was deemed “safe and proper” for him to know from Leliana, and study nobility and courtly influences and history as well as practice mannerisms and penmanship from Josephine… That was just three days of the week. Then after that he would practice the ways of the Knight-Enchanter, aid as much as he could in the rebuilding efforts and read, read, read.  
  
Gods knew he understood the point of it all but sometimes he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the sheer ludicracy of it. Here he was the powerful Inquisitor, closer of rifts, Herald of Andraste…doing homework. At least Josephine wasn’t making him do _more_ dancing lessons for the upcoming ball in Orlais.  
  
Actually he might have preferred more dancing. At least then he would be doing something physical. There was, after all, a reason why he chose Knight-Enchanter for his specialisation. Plus being able to hold a magic _sword_ – really, who wouldn’t want to do that?  
  
That and the other two frankly seemed to be a bit whacked in the head.  
  
So it served as a rather pleasant surprise to find that he was not alone in the library. Not that he ever truly was but, in all honesty, the tranquil weren’t exactly full of titillating conversation. He had almost forgotten that Dorian was a self-proclaimed book worm though he didn’t exactly use those words. It was easy to be fooled by the other man’s broad and built physique that he was a man more inclined to punching than studying.  
  
It seemed Mahanon’s presence was noted as well. “Brilliant, isn’t it?” Dorian started before going into a full-blown rant. It was easy enough to understand though – none of them had signed up for an archdemon attack. “Am I speaking too quickly for you?”  
  
Shite he had been caught staring hadn’t he? He had been paying attention, truly, he just…well, frankly he had spent enough time thinking about the archdemon. It was almost reflex that a smirk crossed his lips as he met Dorian’s gaze and said, “I was…distracted, that’s all.”  
  
Not entirely a lie. His thoughts had been elsewhere and his eyes had most certainly been looking over the other mage’s physique plenty though he excused that as simply being curious about what the man looked like outside of battle robes. Plus he was rather entertaining when going on like he was now.  
  
Hmm. Perhaps he should make a mental note not to ever say that out loud. Somehow he thought that saying “you are so entertaining when filled with mortal fear and obsessing over a dragon that nearly killed us all” wouldn’t be the most popular of sentiments.  
  
“Distracted? By my wit and charm? I have plenty of both,” Dorian drawled.  
  
“How interesting to find someone so aware of his strengths,” he commented back, though he suspected that the joking tone might have been lost judging from the man’s reaction and then a launch into another rant.  
  
Mahanon couldn’t really blame him the sentiments though. The man had left his home country for whatever reasons but it was clear to anyone who spent more than a couple of minutes around the man that he loved his homeland dearly and finding an ancient, evil self-proclaimed magister who spoke of the events that were said to have started the Blights… Well, that wasn’t exactly a feather you wanted in your cap.  
  
He did the best he could to calm the man down but when he felt a need to point out that no one was going to thank him for doing any of this he couldn’t help but snap, “Well then it’s a good think that isn’t why I’m doing any of this.”  
  
Fortunately the flare of temper didn’t seem to phase Dorian much; if anything he seemed to almost…relax? Mahanon couldn’t quite place what happened behind the other mage’s eyes at that bit and it seemed to disappear as quickly as it had appeared in the first place. With a few closing remarks however the Tevinter mage seemed to be making his leave when Mahanon stopped him. “By any chance do you happen to know where, exactly, I can find books on courtly…stuff?”  
  
Oh that sounded eloquent and powerful for sure. Definitely had to jot that one down.  
  
From the way Dorian quirked up a brow and smirked at the comment, it was clear he felt much the same. “Courtly stuff, is it? Well that would all depend on which court – and which era of course.”  
  
Of course it did, and of course he couldn’t remember the exact topics Josephine had sent him to study on further. Whatever, he had so much to catch up on and learn that anything would be an improvement really. “Probably Orlesian things since Josephine keeps talking about us going to something in Orlais.”  
  
“A ball perhaps? A soiree? Oh who am I kidding, just about anything would be better than the social scene here – no offence.”  
  
Mahanon raised his hands and pursed his lips against the grin threatening to over take his lips. “None taken.”  
  
“Alright, fine, I’ll help you, teach you all that I know! But in exchange you have to promise to take me with you when you go. Deal?”  
  
“Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with a demon?” Mahanon replied with a wry grin and a laugh.  
  
“Because you are, of course. Well, Tevinter, but down here in the South I am pretty sure that’s the same thing.”  
  
At that he couldn’t help but laugh and it wasn’t until he did that he realised it had been…actually on second thought he wasn’t going to figure out how long it has been since he had last given a good belly laugh. The sound of it seemed to bounce around the stone walls, drawing several gazes their way in reply to which he gave a sheepish smile and raised a hand in silent apology. Finally returning his gaze to Dorian he returned the wolfish grin the other man wore and nodded. “It’s a deal then. Better the demon you know, eh?”


	3. Why is he the ONLY ONE Sweating?

“Again!”  
  
Sometimes he missed training with Cassandra. It wasn’t that she was preferrable to Helaine, in fact he oddly felt closer to Helaine in some ways, but at least Cassandra sweat _with_ him. Even when Commander Helaine deigned to work on his sword fighting with him in an attempt to work on his ability to keep the sword up during actual fights the woman didn’t sweat. And he knew it wasn’t some bullshit elven ability because he was sweating his balls off.  
  
Never the less he kept the sword summoned and did the manoeuvre again. It was a useful one where he spun to avoid an incoming projectile, deflected an attack with his staff (thank the gods it was ironbark and not prone to breaking and splintering), and then parry with his summoned sword. Not very difficult in the movement if he were honest but did they have to have _Iron-fucking-Bull_ swinging his god damned great axe and Skinner off in the corner with Dalish snickering as they tossed throwing blades at his person? He got it, if he could defend aptly against them then he would be able to do so in battle and if not then Stitches was there to patch him up but least they could do is sweat with him!  
  
Really it was cruel how half of the gathered party was sitting back drinking, four of them were lounging in the shade and _he was the only one breaking a sweat.  
  
_ Glancing between Iron Bull and Commander Helaine he grunted, “You two had this planned, didn’t you?”  
  
Iron Bull promptly laughed at that. “That we did not but when you asked me and my team to help you with a training exercise, I had suspected it might be something like this.”  
  
Okay that was fair. He was a trained Qunari after all, though he had seemed a bit too cheerful when Mahanon had initially asked for the help. Normally the hulking brute didn’t get that excited about anything but ale and dragons. “Well then it’s official, I must have done something to grievously offend you.”  
  
“You just keep telling yourself that, Inquisitor.”  
  
“That’s enough for today. Iron Bull, chargers, I appreciate your assistance in this matter today. Should we need any future assistance for training I will be sure to ask for you,” Helaine interjected, stepping away from the tree trunk with her hands folded properly behind her back. For such a small thing she looked every inch the warrior mage she was.  
  
With a nod towards her the Qunari turned to his team and nodded in the direction of the tavern. “Chargers,” was all he had to say and they moved as a unit. Even when going to day drink it was impressive how they worked together.  
  
Lucky bastards. One look at Commander Helaine was all the confirmation he needed to know that while the Chargers may have been excused, he most certainly was not. Considering the look he had gotten the other day he wasn’t too surprised when she finally said, “So?”  
  
By all that was holy he hoped that she didn’t see his eye roll. One might not think as much by just looking at the woman, but she was just as passionate about mental and emotional fortitude as physical. It made sense, really it did, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. “I’m fine,” he asserted.  
  
“You are holding up,” she corrected.  
  
“Fine, yes, I’m holding up,” he groaned as he finally took a seat on a rock, the summoned sword having been dispelled. Pulling his staff to his lap he rested his forearms on the sturdy length. “Not that such a difference really means much.”  
  
“It means the difference between life a death.”  
  
Well that went from zero to one hundred awfully fast. To think that people called _him_ dramatic. He had heard the ensuing lecture before though and so he just sat there while she got it out of her system.  
  
“You must take care of your mental and emotional state, Inquisitor. You are a warrior and I know that on any battlefield you can fell a demon, but what of the demons we mages must battle on other fields? What of the demons who whisper to you in your dreams and when you are at your lowest? With that mark upon your hand you are closer to the Fade than most mages. How are you supposed to defend yourself against those unless you keep your mind as healthy as your body?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I _know_ , Helaine—” The glare he received for not using her title was expected but frankly he didn’t care. “—I may not have been taught in a Circle like your prim ass but I am well aware of the importance of mental strength! But what do you want me to do? Curl up and cry like a child of but four? Scream and make a scene? Hire someone to tell all my worries to and risk a leak – or worse a spy? All of these things would significantly weaken the Inquisition and our standing with the allies we have but _barely_ won. So you’ll have to excuse me if instead I choose to just keep busy and hit things instead.”  
  
Her lips thinned at that but he had a point and she knew it, even had they not had this conversation a time or two before. And as though playing out a script she made the same suggestion she always did, “What of your friends, the people you travel with? Or your war council? Surely you can turn to one of them.”  
  
 _Oh sure in theory_ , he thought. _But that would require I felt comfortable enough to whine to them about things I am pretty sure they don’t understand._ In all of his group of friends he wasn’t sure any of them understood the sometimes-overwhelming pressure of being a leader of anything, where all eyes turned to him for perfection at all times and one wrong move could cost him dearly. The only one who even came close was Cassandra, but even then by her own admission it wasn’t like she was actually royalty. Void, she wasn’t even close enough in relation to be considered for any great public position.  
  
“What about that new fellow? Dorian, was it? Didn’t he say he was the son of a magister? I would think that came with its own set of pressures.”  
  
He stilled at that. He had actually forgotten that detail. With Dorian being so new to their little band he honestly forgot about the man entirely, but Commander Helaine was right and judging by the knowing look that crossed her face she knew it. Though he had been able to run away from it eventually, the man had spent many years in a rather elite position with an expectation of greatness thrust upon him. In fact, from what he knew of Tevinter magisters, they were expected to be perfect – down to their very breeding according to one conversation he recalled having with Dorian.  
  
“I’ll leave you to ponder on that,” Helaine said while turning to leave. “Perhaps next time you study together?”  
  
Damned spies. Did they report to everyone _but_ him? Scout Harding needing a promotion…at least she told him what the fuck was going on.


	4. A Judgmental Bastard

As a rule he was opposed to the loss of life. For whatever reason though that seemed to surprise people – and perhaps some had a point in the sense that some deserved to die by some standard, and wasn’t he a bit hypocritical considering how many he had slain on the battlefield? – but whenever given a choice between killing and sparing lives, he always favoured saving them.  
  
After seeing the future that Alexius had been trying to bring about though, it was rather difficult to keep his thoughts from going off kilter. The minute the man was brought out before him all the emotions he had been trying to keep in check rushed to him, overwhelming him for but a moment. Seeing the world like that, Cassandra and Varric stuck in those cages… It had scarred him in a way that he couldn’t quite name. Sometimes in his dreams he still saw their faces laced with red lyrium, their pupils and voices so distorted that they almost sounded alien.  
  
For a flicker of a moment he thought he should make the man a tranquil. A mage’s crime, a mage’s punishment; but he nixed the idea quickly enough. No mage truly wanted that, and for as much as it could be argued as a mercy with the inevitable death of his son it wouldn’t be coming from a place of mercy. Most of all though was it was his magic and Mahanon would not be the one to violate the inherent right the other man had in deciding when or if he ever severed his connection to it.  
  
He had to train his expression against his earnest reaction to hearing the man speak of his son though. Well and truly Alexius did not care about his fate. His son was a dead man walking and there was nothing to be done about it, though perhaps he would have seen it differently had he been there in that twisted future. There Felix had been naught but a walking corpse. Truthfully the tranquil had more life to them.  
  
Leaning back in the mage’s throne that had been procured for him and steeping his hands, he regarded the man before him carefully. This man, for all his crimes, had accomplished something no one else could – in fact no one could even dream of it before him. He was clearly exceptionally skilled and talented in understanding and seeing the world of magic unlike anyone else.  
  
Closing his eyes so he could take a break from seeing the face that had tried to tear down the world for his son, Mahanon tried to think of the situation as rationally as possible. The Inquisition needed men, needed every tool they could get, in order to predict and defend against the oncoming horrors – which, Alexius had assured, would all fall in the coming storm – and while time magic certainly would _not_ be the way to go who knew what other wonders and ancient magics he could help uncover?  
  
“Your magic was theoretically _impossible,_ Alexius. I could use people like you,” he finally said, eyes opening once more to seek out the crumpled figure of the man before him. “Your sentence is to serve, under guard, as a researcher for all things magical for the Inquisition.”  
  
He heard the reactions of those that had gathered well enough but his eyes didn’t move from the figure before him. If he were utterly honest, he didn’t want to deal with their reactions which he was sure were rather mixed. Evidently so was Alexius’ reaction. “No execution?” he asked incredulously before giving a heavy sigh. “Very well…”  
  
Mahanon had to admit that there was even a small part of him that had wanted it to be otherwise. After seeing the horrors that he had wrought… But no, Mahanon had to remember that Alexius _hadn’t_ been the one to actually wreak those things but only the facilitating hand. The true monster was Corypheus.  
  
It was official though. He was a judgmental bastard.  
  
Pushing himself up from the throne with a strangled noise of displeasure, one he sincerely hoped no one gathered had been able to hear over the commotion that had suddenly taken over the main hall, he walked out of the main hall. He knew that taking the door that led primarily to Josephine’s office and the war room would inspire no one to follow but as soon as he shut the door he took a hard left and went through an easily overlooked door and went down the stairs.  
  
Skyhold had many wonders and little looked into nooks and crannies and this he considered to be one of them though how it remained so easily missed eluded him. Perhaps it was the fact that it was so dark and overrun with cobwebs, the musty smell of stale air overtaking it, but he was happy in this moment no one looked down here. Occasionally he would visit the empty room for practice where no one else could see, other times he just wandered down there to get drunk and stare at the glorious paintings that he was certain no one still living had put up. Not that he was much of a drinker, but a person could really only be shouldered with saving the world so many times before they had to blow off some steam.  
  
This time though he just punched a wall and let out a wordless yell.  
  
It had been perhaps one of the hardest things to let a man live who he still, in some part of him, held responsible for all that he had seen. No matter how many times he tried to shake it a small dark part of him hissed how _Alexius_ had done that to Cassandra and Varric, how _Alexius_ had tortured Liliana for years… He was grateful he hadn’t been told too much about what had happened and to whom, because he was certain that if he had found out much more, he wouldn’t have been able to reign in his temper as he had today. He wouldn’t have even waited for Josephine to finish speaking before he stood and ran the magister through with his own conjured sword.  
  
So it was a bit more than a surprise when Solas seemed to appear out of nowhere and before the other elf could ask the question that Mahanon was sure he was preparing he blurted, “I need to know more about Corypheus.”  
  
“Why not ask Cassandra or Varric? They seem far more aware of our adversary,” Solas responded. Perhaps his temper had leaked into his tone for the response seemed to be almost defensive or evasive. But no, he told himself, that was just the way of Solas. The man always sounded like he was hiding something.  
  
“You have given me good council before. I am afraid I am in need of it again.”  
  
"Of course, Inquisitor, my poor manners shame me. I claim no secret wisdom, but I will guess as best I can.”  
  
“What is the source of Corypheus’ power?” Perhaps if he knew that he would know how to stem the tides of what he had seen.  
  
So Solas explained as best he could what he knew of legends. _A bit odd,_ Mahanon thought. The other elf claimed to spend all his time going to ancient buildings and ruins and going into the Fade to see what had happened and the memories of ancient beings, conversing and hearing their stories in a way no one else Mahanon had ever met was able…and yet when it came to Corypheus the only thing he seemed to have was what the Chantry repeated. Well, that and speculation as to the ancient being’s sense of pride. “The rest may come from the orb he carries,” Solas finished.  
  
The orb! Turning to lean against one of the stone pillars and shaking out his hand. “Tell me about the orb he carries.” He had seen it now a couple of times though never particularly closely.  
  
The fact that Solas had noted it perhaps shouldn’t have surprised him and yet a part of him was. Even more surprising however was the fact that Solas seemed to only be able to repeat the words of the Chantry when discussing Corypheus and yet when it came to the orb and the way he spoke of the power it wielded…it almost seemed a bit…personal? Mahanon shook his head against the thought. Clearly he was fatigued if he thought a magical _ball_ could somehow be personal to anyone.  
  
His head snapped up at one mention though. “Wait—the orb is elven?”  
  
Solas’ words almost passed over him at that point. Instead Mahanon was transfixed on the expression that crossed Solas’ face as he explained how he did believe it was elven and how a being such as Crypheus should have never been able to unlock its potential. A chill went down Mahanon’s spine as he watched the usually fairly expressionless man become so clearly irate over the matter.  
  
He had no way of knowing why or what, but something about this seemed very, very wrong. In some part of his mind flashed the imagine of a Mabari hound trying to get his favourite toy back. That was enough to get Mahanon to crack a half grin, reaching up to cover his face with a hand as he took a breath to stifle the urge to laugh. The image was just too funny. “Thank you Solas. You have given me much to think about but I think now that some sleep is desperately needed.” Somehow he doubted that mentioning he had a mental image of Solas as a Mabari would have made the other man laugh nearly as much as it made him want to. Pushing himself off the beam and giving the man a nod and an appreciative grin he said, “We’ll talk later.”  
  
As he left the way he had come he heard Solas utter, “Goodbye.”  
  
It unnerved him sometimes how easy it was for the other man to say that.


	5. Poor Scroll

A gentile kick woke him and he roused from his sleep with a start, calling on his magic without preamble. As it was, the ball of fire he had summoned in his hand and the candle being held by the one who had awoken him were the only sources of light to be found in the – wait had he fallen asleep in the library? It took a moment to realise that the person who had woken him was Dorian wearing a rather amused expression on his face. Had it been virtually anyone else he would have found the fact that they were amused by the Inquisitor nearly hurtling a ball of fire at their heads to be a bit out of place, but Dorian had shown that he was a capable mage.  
  
“Up too late reading the naughty bits?” he teased, reaching down to pull the book that had been left open on Mahanon’s lap and taking a quick glance at the pages with that increasingly familiar smirk that he wore.  
  
“Oh yes, three-hundred-year-old court gossip is quite titillating,” he said, leaning forward to steal the book back from the other man. As he grabbed on to the book however their hands overlapped for a brief period and their gazes snapped towards each other with such suddenness that Mahanon could have _sworn_ it made a sound. For a moment a heavy force hung in the air between them before Mahanon finally broke away from Dorian’s grey eyes and pulled the book back to his person, sticking a piece of cloth he had been using as a book mark between the pages. “Truly it would have been a crime had they not recorded it!”  
  
What the hell had _that_ been? He knew magic forces well enough, the forces of the Fade and demons, and was becoming increasingly aware of the forces behind the court and history – Josephine would be so proud – but he didn’t have the foggiest notion of whatever the hell _that_ was.  
  
“Is it possible—? Could it be—?” Just by the tone in his voice Mahanon knew Dorian was winding himself up for a jab. “Don’t tell me that our high and mighty Inquisitor has a sense of humour? The scandal!”  
  
Mahanon had to laugh at that, but it occurred to him that since Dorian had joined he hadn’t seen anything other than the grim and grave. “Do be sure not to tell the others, I fear it would traumatise all the people who believe me to be the reincarnation of a holy figure.”  
  
“Do people actually think that?” Dorian asked as he took the seat across from him, setting the candle between them. One glance out the large window behind them told Mahanon that the sun had not yet risen though he felt in his bones that it was, in fact, the morning.  
  
With a shrug of his shoulders he leaned back in the chair and said, “Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised anymore. People seem to think I am everything else under the sun.”  
  
“Is that a note of bitterness I sense there?” Dorian asked and though his tone was light hearted enough Mahanon sensed that under the surface there was an undercurrent of seriousness to it. Before he could reply however the other mage continued, “Not that I would blame you if there was, mind you. From what I can tell people look to you for everything that is good and blame you for even the slightest wrong in the world.”  
  
Unbidden, Commander Helaine’s words came to him about how perhaps he should confide in the Tevinter mage. Of all of the people around, certainly Dorian would understand better than anyone else how the weight of everyone’s expectations rest on his shoulders. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all…but he couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet.  
  
“I’m told you have Alexius researching magic for you?”  
  
At some point his gaze had slid to the candle flame whilst deep in thought but as soon as Dorian spoke Mahanon’s hazel eyes snapped back to Dorian’s grey hues.  
  
“Research is always what made him happiest,” the other mage continued. “Perhaps I’ll even go talk to him…eventually. One word of advice though: if he suggests altering time as a way to solve all your problems, give it a pass.”  
  
“Aww, ruining my plans already? I’ll have to kick you out of the Inquisition at this rate.”  
  
“Come now, we both know I’m far too witty and charming for that to ever really happen.”  
  
“Are you now? I suppose you’ll just have to push the envelope and find out now, won’t you?”  
  
Dorian’s eyes seemed to light with something a bit more than his usual mischievous light then. “Inquisitor, you do love playing with fire don’t you?”  
  
He shrugged at that, though he returned the impish grin that Dorian wore on his own face. “I am the Herald of Andraste, aren’t I? Had to get something from her, I suppose.”  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Inquisitor, but you don’t strike me as the believing type.”  
  
He rolled his eyes at that. “By the gods drop the Inquisitor thing, if just for a moment. I realise formalities are what they are but you can call me by my name. Honestly, I prefer it. You are correct in that though; I am most certainly not the believing type. I may swear by the old gods of my people but I don’t truly believe in them either. Instead I believe in what I can prove – and gods, be it one or many, are rather elusive creatures.”  
  
“Odd to hear coming from an elven mage, but I can understand it.”  
  
“Thank the gods _someone_ does. Surrounded by all these people who swear by the chant… If it is something you believe in and it gives you any comfort then by all means, believe away, don’t get me wrong. But just don’t expect me to believe in the same.”  
  
“What do you make of all this then?”  
  
“This?” Mahanon asked, eyebrows raised in credulously and waving his marked hand around the room as though to indicate the entirety of the Inquisition. “Is just another shit show under the banner of the Maker. People wonder why I don’t believe and the reason is profoundly simple: I have seen what the believers do.”  
  
“Oh?” Dorian queried, raising a brow.  
  
“Well I mean have you met a _non_ believer who is trying to break into the Black City and become a god?”  
  
“I suppose you might have a point there. How would you explain all the rest of this though?”

  
He knew what Dorian meant. The fact that he had been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes exactly when he had been to steal whatever the hell was on his hand, the fact that he had survived so many times when all logic said he shouldn’t have, the fact that often he found himself with stores of energy to push through long after he should have collapsed from exhaustion… It was hard to explain. “I wouldn’t,” Mahanon finally declared. “I don’t think I have enough information yet to try to.”  
  
To that Dorian simply raised a brow and, as it so happened, the sun happened to pick that moment in time to begin cresting over the horizon and filtering through the window. It took just about every ounce of self-control that his sleep-addled brain possessed not to turn around and flash a repulsive gesture at the sun. Apparently not enough control though to keep the corner of his right eye begin to twitch, which the other mage seemed to notice right away – despite Mahanon’s hurried attempt to reach up and try to still the ill-times muscle spasm – and burst out laughing.  
  
“You could at least wait until I’ve had a cup of tea to help wake me up before you start pointing and laughing at me,” Mahanon chided with a groan.  
  
“Oh my _deepest_ apologies, O Inquisitor!” Dorian got out between laughs, sarcasm practically dripping from every word. “Please do forgive me, I am but a humble follower!”  
  
Leaning up in the chair Mahnon grabbed on to a nearby tightly rolled up scroll and began whacking the other man over the head and on the shoulders – really where ever he could hit the man. Which only made him laugh all the harder. “Damned ‘Vints, poor manners with the lot of you! Should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance, ya prick!”  
  
“Forgive me my transgressions, my Inquisitor!” Dorian gasped out between laughs, now utterly doubled over and using his arms and hands to shield his person from the continuous blows to his person. Mahanon couldn’t help it, even he begun laughing hard at it all. The fact that Dorian’s attempt at acting repentant was just so bleeding horrid only made the entire situation all the funnier.  
  
“Fine, fine!” Mahanon finally relented, clutching his belly as he caught his breath and pushing himself up to standing. “I forgive you – but only if you pay for all my drinks next time we all gather at the tavern!” The latter half had been added hastily and was partnered with him tossing the rolled-up scroll back at the mage as he began walking away. Thank the gods none of the librarians were up and about; Inquisitor or not he was pretty sure they would have taken the whip to him for the way he was treating that scroll.


	6. Snakes in the Grass

It was official – he was crazy. Or at the very least very, very paranoid. Maybe this damned mark was more harmful than he originally thought.   
  
First he had been overwhelmed with the notion that Solas had been hiding something from him regarding that damned orb and now Blackwall. Though admittedly at least in regards to Blackwall he had reason to doubt; ever since Hawke had arrived and told them all about the missing Grey Wardens he’d had a sinking feeling in his gut. According to her Wardens had been going missing for some time now and there had also been corruption in their ranks. That had been easy enough for him to explain away – Blackwall recruited after all and by his own admission wasn’t really around other Wardens much. What with the Blight over ten years and already being forgotten in the minds of others, it was easy to believe when he said recruiting wasn’t exactly successful and so there weren’t many times where he interacted with fellow Wardens.  
  
Mahanon had still made sure to leave him at Skyhold however when he had gone out to see Stroud with Varric and Hawke. He didn’t do it out of distrust for the other man, he told himself, he just didn’t need another person in the front line. Cassandra was his preferred person to bring anyway. Over the time they had spent together and the adventures they had shared, they two had grown close. Helaine had speculated once that it was because the two of them had warrior hearts and if he were honest with himself, he could see it. When presented with a difficult person both of them tended to learn towards the diplomatic and they would frequently check the other when one of their tempers flared too much. When they needed to blow off steam they sparred together and though their weapons were different – her with her faithful sword and shield and him with his newly summoned sword and stave – the respect that had for one another had steadily grown over the years.  
  
As had their ability to read the other person’s face despite the fact that so many others had such difficulty doing so. It wasn’t surprising to him when she sat down on the log beside him at their camp one night, propping her sword up at her side and draping her arms loosely over her bowed knees. “You are distrustful of Blackwall.” It wasn’t a question and though her dark eyes never left the fire he knew she was paying attention to his every tick.  
  
“That obvious?” he quipped in reply, a corner of his lips quirking up. They must have made quite the sight, it occurred to him. A sword propped up at one end of the log and a staff on the other, both of them with largely blank expressions on their faces as their eyes locked on to the fire, muscles tightly wound in a well-trained cautious stance and feet spread shoulder-width apart by nothing but instinct. It had happened often enough that bandits had tried their luck with their campsites that neither was soon to let their guards down.   
  
“No,” she said simply in that bald way of speaking that she had. “It isn’t. Though I am curious why.”  
  
He shrugged at that and shifted his eyes to the other side of the camp where Dorian and Varric sat playing a game of cards – probably Wicked Grace. He trusted them, but he didn’t want any more people to hear what he was about to say till he felt ready. Not for the first time he was grateful they had chosen not to move with the Inquisition troops, instead sticking to a smaller less noticeable group. Outside of the fact that it afforded them more privacy this way and less likely to draw people following them to Stroud, it was also nice. In a lot of ways it felt like the beginning again, before all the shit blew up and they went from “hole in the sky” to “evil magister back from the dead trying to take over the world.” Odd to think of a hole in the sky as simpler times. “It just…doesn’t add up. Why is he so curious about the Grey Wardens if he has been recruiting for them for years? How does he know nothing of a suspected corruption in the ranks that has been going on for years?”  
  
“Would you like me to actually answer that?”  
  
“Please.” The word had come out sounding bit more of a plea than he had intended as he sighed, though he did sincerely hope that Cassandra could explain it all away. He hated feeling this way. It reminded him of when he had been a small child and knew that there was a snake hidden in the tall grass around him, with enough magic to defend himself but not enough knowledge to know from which direction he needed to be defending. Tense. Waiting.  
  
“He is a recruiter, is it not possible that he likes to collect all the artifacts and the history so that he might pass it on to his recruits and eventually bring it back to one of their forts? I can only imagine how many questions a recruit could think up on a long journey.”  
  
He nodded and felt in a way like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, grateful to hear the explanation he had given himself echoed by someone whose opinion he gave a great amount of weight.   
  
It was true, he knew that he would have a lot of questions if he had been recruited or even conscripted to an organisation. By the Void, he’d had a ton of questions when he was first was brought to Haven and the outpost near the ruins of the Temple of Ashes. And at least he had the explanation of a glowing hand.  
  
“He also mentioned that he had spent years away from the Wardens. Even had he not been away for extended periods of times, as someone sent out to recruit it is possible they felt no need to explain to him political developments or suspicions.”  
  
That was true too. When was the last time Mahanon had felt like he should inform a passing scout of in-camp drama for example? He didn’t even explain too much to Scout Harding, and she was one of the few scouts he saw regularly. As the silence stretched between them for one, two, five minutes he eventually looked over at her with a side-long glance and asked, “Do you think I’m crazy?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you think I’m wrong?”  
  
Again the silence fell between them, only the sounds of the wildlife and the crackling firs, Dorian’s and Varric’s laughter and banter to fill the air. “I…do not know.” He could tell just by the way that she said it that she wasn’t pleased by it either. She was a Seeker of Truth – not knowing was foreign to her. “I do not blame you for thinking as much, I must admit that I have had my own doubts. But I also had doubts about you, was convinced I knew the truth when we first met and was proven wrong.”  
  
That was fair. When they had first met she had been convinced of his guilt, ready to condemn him and quite literally clap him in irons for the rest of his life. Had the Fade not distorted things so thoroughly at the remains of the Temple of Ashes he doubted she ever would have truly heard him out and given his story much credence, not that he particularly blamed someone doubting the whole “it wasn’t me, I swear” story. The fact that he had gone out of his way to be as flippant as possible about the situation had most certainly _not_ helped matters.  
  
“Perhaps this Stroud character can offer clarification,” she offered after another long moment, seeming to sense the weight of his thoughts on the matter and echoing the same hope he held. “From what Hawke had mentioned he is a senior member of the Grey Wardens and extremely knowledgeable. Surely if anyone were to have heard the Blackwall name, he would.”  
  
Mahanon nodded at that but couldn’t bring himself to say how dearly he hoped it would be so. “How did you know by the way?” he asked.  
  
This time it was her turn to give a wry grin and look over at him. “Concerned you might be losing your mysterious ways?”  
  
He gave a short laugh at that. “As if! I think this gives me enough mystery to most people,” he commented, waving his left hand at her. “No, I’m just curious.”  
  
She shrugged. “It wasn’t obvious if that is what you were concerned about,” she said. “We have simply known each other for a bit of time now and I know how you usually are, and lately you have distanced yourself from him more than usual.” Raising a brow at him she continued, “Solas as well.”  
  
He groaned and rolled his eyes at that. Of _course_ she would notice that. Unlike his newfound distrust of Blackwall however, that lingering feeling of discomfort was not so easily explained. There was no logical way to explain “I had a weird feeling once and imagined him as a dog after a ball” and have it make sense. Fuck it didn’t even make sense to _him_. “He’s just a bit too much to deal with sometimes,” was what he said instead by way of explanation. Not a total lie, he told himself. Solas was sometimes a bit too much.  
  
She gave a small laugh at that. “True enough, Inquisitor.”


	7. Hawke

He had no clue who Blackwall was.  
  
It had been the least terrible news he had heard during the whole visit, but it was the only thing he could think about as they slowly trekked back to Skyhold. Sure Corypheus was confirmed to be a suspected magister-of-old-turned-darkspawn and all the Wardens in Thedas were apparently hearing this Calling that convinced them that they were dying, _but Stroud didn’t know who Blackwall was._  
  
“At best,” Stroud had said. “The name seems familiar. Perhaps if I saw him I would know who he was but I do not recall Blackwall.”  
  
He probably needed to get his priorities checked because it was clear as day that the other news that had been shared were infinitely worse, but as it was he wasn’t able to shake the feelings that overwhelmed him the minute he heard Stroud’s confirmation of his fear. Blackwall, it would seem, was no Warden. Or at the very least he had enough reason to doubt Blackwall’s status as a Warden to assume it untrue.   
  
The why of it eluded him though. Why, of all things, lie about being a Warden? Sure it was hard to prove otherwise and some held them in high regard, but outside of times of Blights they really weren’t afforded anything outside of the title. It just didn’t make sense to him. Blackwall – or whomever he really was – was human and could have likely gotten away with pretending to be just about anything short of an Orzamar messenger or Dalish apostate.   
  
Did it really matter though? _No,_ Mahanon quickly decided. _It didn’t._ At the end of the day someone he had begun to thought of as a friend and ally had lied to him. Not just him but everyone around him. He supposed it was worth hearing out the why of it all, but just then he couldn’t bring himself to care about the why.  
  
Looking over at Hawke as she walked and laughed with Varric he wondered what she would do in his situation. He knew of at least the ultimate betrayal at the end at Anders’ hand and he was willing to bet that there had been other betrayals along the line during those long years in Kirkwall.  
  
By some sense she seemed to have known he was watching her and, with a smile to Varric, fell back so that the two were walking side by side. With a raised brow and a grin, mischief lighting up her blue eyes, she practically purred, “Oooh, a broody elf. My favourite!”  
  
He couldn’t help but crack a half grin at that, shaking his head at her mildly flirtatious comment. There was no way to avoid it – her energy was rather infectious. “How did you do it?” He offered no explanation or elaboration on his question; something in the way she approached him and had watched him in the case made him suspect that she understood exactly what he meant.  
  
“Be _this_ gorgeous and funny and charming? It’s a gift!” she chimed, flipping her hair over her shoulder dramatically. It made him laugh and something in him uncoiled a bit as he did so. Her expression sobered a bit though as she laced her hands behind her head and looked over at him with a coy grin. “But honestly? I just kept one foot in front of the other. Admittedly I only had a city following me and asking me for favours, not a damned army and two nations, but that’s pretty much the gist of it. Laugh often, take what happiness you can get, and just keep one foot in front of the other.”  
  
“ _How_ though?” he stressed with a groan. “How do you manage to make jokes of everything all the time? Don’t people chastise you or think you inappropriate?”  
  
 _Like I had been,_ he thought to himself as he thought back to the very start of this whole mess. The minute this whole “Herald of Andraste” caught like wild fire across the minds of so many, Josephine had talked to him about how he was going to be considered such regardless of what he felt. Even asked him to make an official statement in regards to it. While she had complimented him on his humility on the matter when he honestly said he had no knowledge of any sort of divine let alone what their intentions were, she also made it very clear: no matter what his thoughts or feelings were on the subject, to the rest of the world he was and would always be the Herald of Andraste and his actions would be a direct reflection of everything they were doing.  
  
She hadn’t been rude or condescending in any way, shape, or form when she had said it. In true Josephine fashion she was factual and diplomatic. He could even tell by the look in her eyes that a part of her even pitied him to some degree and while he hated it he couldn’t honestly say he faulted her for it. By the Void, who would have wanted this? To have the weight of the literal world on their shoulders and have done nothing to gain it but be at the wrong place at the wrong time? He hadn’t even _thought about_ touching the damned orb, he had reached out on reflex alone.  
  
Hawke snorted at that and it snapped him out of his thoughts abruptly, to hear such an ugly sound out of such a gorgeous woman. “’Course they do! All the bleeding time! But why should I care?” His lips thinned slightly at that and he wondered if she noticed as she continued on. “Hear me out, yes I don’t always joke at the best of times—okay I almost never joke at the right time—but what does me being dour do for me? For anyone? So the sky is falling—literally!—what does being serious do anyone?”  
  
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he admitted.  
  
“Think about it,” she said with an animated jump, tapping her head with a finger and closing one eye as she stuck her tongue out at him. “It’s your last day on the planet. The world is gonna end any time now, no one knows when. Would you rather sit there and laugh with friends or ponder over your fate?”  
  
He supposed she had a point and from the grin that took over her face she knew it. “I suppose I would want to laugh if those were the only options, though if I’m honest I’m not sure I could. Truthfully I would rather fight. I’d spend my last hours fighting a war and banging against the doors if I had to.”  
  
It was her turn to blink at his words. Gods even the way she _blinked_ seemed overly animated and comical. Standing up straight she placed one hand on her hip and tapped her chin with the other. “I suppose I would too. Enough people would argue that I did as much in Kirkwall.” Suddenly with a gasp she looked at him with what was easily the biggest grin he had seen on her face thus far. “You know who you remind me of? Varric! Vaaarriiic! You know who he reminds me of?”  
  
At this point their whole party had stopped to look at the two, the distance closing. “This ought to be good,” the dwarf said with a laugh and a shake of his head, playing it off as though he was exasperated with the woman despite the fact that he was clearly loving every second of having his friend around again.  
  
“Fenris!”  
  
“What?” Varric nearly choked on his laughter as he got that out.  
  
“Okay I mean in some ways! I mean clearly they look nothing alike…and one has magic…and you know, the whole broody bit… But you have you admit they’re similar!”  
  
“Fucking _how_?”  
  
It was a thought Mahanon echoed, raising a brow at the woman incredulously. He had never met the elven man but he had heard enough about him that he was positive that about the only thing the two had in common were pointed ears.  
  
“Well, they’re both fighters.”  
  
Cassandra and Dorian were at an utter loss as to this entire thing, but Varric seemed to assess Mahanon a bit differently at that. “You know he carries a staff, right?” Varric finally said. “The sword bit is all magic.”  
  
“And here I thought you were the creative one of us,” Hawke huffed, shaking her head at him as though she were deeply disappointed. “Think about it – when Fenris is cornered what does he do?”  
  
“Usually snarls, cusses in Tevinter, and lashes out.”  
  
“Exactly! And what does the Inquisitor do?”  
  
“Adopts the most boring expression possible for the situation, says something so vague no one knows exactly what he means, and fights.”  
  
“Exactly! See?” She was so clearly excited and kept looking between Mahanon and Varric, clearly expecting them to see her impeccable logic.   
  
“No,” they said in unison.   
  
“You’d think that for a woman who is sleeping with an elf that she could be able to tell the difference between them,” Varric quipped. “But nope.”  
  
She groaned at that and her shoulders slumped as she looked to the sky as though in silent plead for the Maker to help make them see the light. “Fine fine,” she said finally, and for a moment Mahanon thought she would give up the point but the moment she turned her gaze back to him he knew it wasn’t done. She had made her mind up. “Look, you’re both fighters. Fenris would say the same thing. Even if he decided to be a stubborn ass and claim otherwise I have _seen_ him do the same thing. You are both fighters.”  
  
He was about to tell the woman that he would take her word for it, if only to end this conversation, when Varric admittedly, “Alright I can see that much. Mage or not I’ve seen you scrap like you were born for it every time it was life or death.”  
  
“See? I mean obviously Fenris is more broody and Mahanon is more…let’s be nice and say _reserved_.”  
  
“You? Nice?” Varric scoffed with a laugh.  
  
“Shut up, Varric! _My point is…_ don’t forget to laugh and smile. Find happiness in every crack and corner that you can. I know that being the rebel Champion of Kirkwall isn’t like being the leader of the Inquisition, but it some ways I bet it’s the same. Don’t be afraid to laugh and joke with your friends; I would be willing to bet that those who follow you would like to see more of that from you as well.” And with that she was gone, bouncing back over to Varric and continuing their conversation as the party continued on their way back to Skyhold.  
  
Perhaps she was right. He had spent so much of this time trying to save face and outside of a couple of moments, he never really let himself relax from his Herald of Andraste role. But perhaps he should. Perhaps he needed to allow himself more moments like what he had shared with Dorian not long ago and let himself relax. Perhaps he should let his metaphorical hair down and go to the tavern to drink and play Wicked Grace with the rest of them. Perhaps he didn’t need to pour over that damned war table so much. He had advisors after all, Cullen and Leliana and Josephine had led before he showed up and if he were to give himself a little time they could lead still. They allowed themselves to laugh and joke and flirt – okay maybe not Leliana so much but he was sure he had her moments.  
  
Looking over at Hawke and Varric he had a hard time thinking that they had ever been anything but the jovial jokesters they were now together and a part of him wanted to be that as well.   
  
_Perhaps I am closer than I think._ Turning his gaze to the more sombre Cassandra and Dorian he realised he felt close to both of them though in different ways. Cassandra was the practical head he relied upon when things were going to hell but she laughed and joked here and there, her humour was just a bit more subtle. And Dorian…gods, Dorian never seemed to take anything seriously. He bet that the other mage would never judge him if he chose to take a break from being Inquisitor; in fact something told Mahanon that Dorian would welcome it. Certainly he had seemed to like when they had joked about the other morning.  
  
 _Perhaps Hawke is right_.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to let me know what you guys think thus far! Feel free to leave comments or kudos. :)


	8. Not too Elfy

For as much as he and Sera had a load of differences Mahanon had to admit that her presence was oddly grounding. She was one of the few who spoke often and openly about how he was just a man – “I mean, sure, you’re all elfy and have a glowing hand, but you’re still just like everyone else, yeah?” – and when it came to helping him do weird training exercises that absolutely no one else would do with him, she was his girl.  
  
Which is how he found himself shirtless on the training yard with her shooting arrows at him from across the field while she drank her fill of free ale – his way of paying her for the assistance though they both knew she would have done it anyway. It wasn’t like he was completely defenceless; he had his staff in hand which he was using to knock arrows to the side. He just felt that the exercise was more effective if he didn’t have to worry about stitching up his clothing after the fact. Plus Sera was one of the very few women he didn’t have to worry about ogling him just because he wanted to keep his shirt off on a warm day while blocking arrows.  
  
One of those side effects of being the Inquisitor that people _didn’t_ talk about.  
  
It was flattering and all, but mostly it just made him uncomfortable if her were honest. He had spent most of his life in the woods with his clan. While certainly he’s had his flirtations here and there it had usually been with people of other clans as they had passed each other in their travels. Certainly none of his own clan had looked at him like he was a rack of meat about to be served up.  
  
Sera, for all her tendency to lean on the side of ignorance on so many matters, seemed to understand that bit pretty quick which is how the two had started to hang out on more than a business basis. Any time that one of the women of Skyhold wandered towards the training yard with that look in her eye, Sera immediately turned on them with a curled lip and a raised bow and told them to, in one way or another, “piss off.”  
  
It was something he had told her on numerous occasions that he was grateful for.  
  
“It’s just…you’re people too, yeah?” she had said on one occasion. “You don’t look at people like that, you look at food like that.”  
  
“Aren’t you worried that they’ll think you’re being territorial or jealous?” he’d asked with a raised brow.  
  
That had gotten a laugh out of her. “Let ‘em!”  
  
She had become a bit of a saving grace for him in more ways than he had anticipated. When at first the renegade had joined their rag-tag group it had been more out of necessity – they needed people and she had brought with her the most powerful source of information possible, the eyes and ears of all those who were over looked. But as time went on he found himself leaning on her for things he had never anticipated: staving off people who would look at him like an object more than a person, being bold and brash when he had to stay calm and reserved, and helping him train only being a handful of ways.  
  
Perhaps most important though was that she treated him like just a normal person. Always. No matter what happened her treatment of him never stopped, though she made no secret of the fact that his “magey” stuff freaked her out. That in and of itself had been hugely important though. She reminded him of the fact that while he was called Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, and outright called holy people still did see the magic he wielded and were afraid and that the fear was the same they always had. They simply didn’t understand it, so they feared it. In recent times magic hadn’t exactly made a good name for itself so he didn’t blame them for the fear either.  
  
“You’re a bit crazy, yeah?” she said with a laugh, shooting another arrow at him.  
  
He side stepped the arrow and flashed a smirk at her. “You’re one to talk.”  
  
“I’m not the one asking for arrows to be shot at them,” she pointed out before taking another drink from her mug and firing off another at him. “ _While_ encouraging the shooter to drink!”  
  
This time his used his staff knock the arrows to the side, the sound of the wood clattering against the stone wall of the requisitions room filling the air as he grinned and shrugged his shoulders at her. “You’re a good shot,” he said simply.  
  
“You know I’m aiming for your head, yeah?”  
  
“My point exactly.”  
  
“Again, crazy.”  
  
Leaning down he begun picking up the scattered arrows before bringing them back to her. As she took them and put them back in her quiver, he leaned against the barrel next to the one she was sitting on and took a couple deep breaths, propping his staff up against the wall next to him. After a moment he looked up at her only to find her practically snarling towards the blacksmithy. With a raised brow he shifted just enough to see what she was snarling at: one of the Orlesian nobles that had come to Skyhold to “inspect” the place. Only thing she was “inspecting” right then though was Mahanon and he had to grit his teeth against a shudder before whispering low, “Just make sure not to actually hit her, Josephine stressed that we were to be on our best behaviour.”  
  
“She should be on her best behaviour too,” Sera grumbled, but proceeded to miss the arrow she shot at the woman. With a squeal of fear and a fluttered comment of “how dreadful!” the woman retreated, fanning herself as though somehow that would erase the memory of having an arrow land in the ground just at her feet. He doubted that the woman even realised that Sera had intended for it to land there.  
  
“I don’t understand those people,” Sera said after going to retrieve the arrow and hopping back up on top of the barrel. “I mean, yes, you’re good looking for a man and you’re not too elfy despite the ears, but why do they go all goofy in the eyes the minute you don’t have a shirt?”  
  
“Possibly because then they don’t have to look at the ears,” he commented, grabbing the linen shirt he had been wearing earlier and dabbing at the sweat on the back of his neck. “Or maybe it’s the hand.”  
  
She shook her head at that, her lip still curled in disgust. “I just…I thought they only looked at little people like that.”  
  
“Seen your fair share of it then?” She didn’t really talk about her past, but based on what she had mentioned and what he knew of the lives of city elves he wouldn’t have been too shocked if she had seen city nobles do all sorts of messed up things.  
  
“It just doesn’t make sense! With the little people they think they can get away with it because they’re…well, little people! But you’re big people, yeah? You have a castle and everything!”  
  
“True,” he said slowly, standing up straight and turning to lean back against the barrel, bending one knee and crossing his arms over his chest. “But politically we are still in a very delicate position and they know it. If I’m honest though I wouldn’t be too surprised if it didn’t stop even once we were in a better position. Hopefully though this upcoming trip to Orlais will help with at least one of those problems though.”  
  
“That’s coming up soon, yeah?” Her expression had smoothed a bit now and she put her bow back in her lap as she sipped more from her mug.  
  
He nodded. “We’re supposed to leave in just a few weeks now.”  
  
“I’m not going.”  
  
He laughed at that. “Don’t worry Sera, I wasn’t going to bring you. You’ve made it plenty clear exactly how miserable you’d be.”  
  
“Good! Who are you bringing then?”  
  
“Well Dorian for sure.” At a coy grin on her face he laughed again and waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not like that, we simply struck a bargain back when we first found out about the ball and I promised I would take him as payment.”   
  
“You two do spend an awful lot of time holed up in that library together,” she teased.   
  
He rolled his eyes at that. It was true that the two had been spending rather a lot of time together, but they did mostly study together. The rest of the time they just spoke and joked with one another, occasionally playing mild pranks on others. “I think I will take Cassandra as well, I feel like she might enjoy it. Or at the very least be good council.”  
  
She scoffed at the comment about Cassandra enjoying herself. “That one’s not as tight laced as she seems, am I right?” she said with a giggle.   
  
“True,” he conceded, a wide grin splitting his face. Certainly the Seeker was _very_ tight laced, but he had seem her relax and joke plenty as well though not as opening as people like Sera. “Other than those two though I don’t have any real ideas. Fortunately though I have some time yet to decide.”  
  
“Well just so long as it isn’t me,” she repeated with a laugh, swinging her foot to kick him in the side a bit as she grinned at him and pulled another arrow from her quiver once more. “Come on then, O Mighty Inquisitor, I have to work on my aim.”  
  



	9. Very Drunk

“Dorian, I can’t believe you’re actually drinking that blasted swill!” Blackwall declared with a raucous laugh, the others in the tavern laughing as well at the screwed up expression that possessed Dorian’s visage the moment his swallowed what was in his cup.   
  
“I just can’t believe they _serve_ this swill,” the Tevinter mage replied, a wry grin on his face as he turned to Mahanon. “Really, what _is_ becoming of Skyhold? Can’t you procure anything better than this?”  
  
“Not for you, I can’t,” Mahanon replied with a laugh before taking a deep drink from his own mug. Truth was that none of the ale served in Skyhold was particularly good, but Dorian also had a tendency to order from the bottom of the menu. Mahanon had asked him why once and all he had gotten by way of explanation was some story about how he wasn’t able to afford the higher shelf stuff because he had too much gambling debt to pay Varric. Mahanon would have more readily believed that the man would just prefer to spend his coin on clothes what with how intricate his wardrobe tended to be.  
  
“Then why do you keep drinking it?” Blackwall continued his laughter never stopping. Over the bar counter Blackwall’s and Mahanon’s eyes locked for a moment and the elf offered the man a grin with a nod.   
  
A couple days ago he had finally confronted Blackwall about what Stroud and Hawke had told them regarding the Wardens and the Inquisitor had made it rather apparent they he had some reservations about the other man now. Blackwall had been offended and clearly a bit hurt by the way that Mahanon had regarded him with blatant suspicion and commented about how he thought it awfully convenient that all the Wardens seemed to know about this corruption and Calling…except Blackwall himself.   
  
Judging by the way that Blackwall seemed more or less like his normal self with everyone gathered at the bar like such, Mahanon presumed that it was water under the bridge at this point. By the way Blackwall behaved he knew that the supposed Warden understood the elf’s suspicions well enough, be it because of some level of validity or simply the fact that as the Inquisition grew, so too did Mahanon’s need to be on the look out for treachery. Corypheus was strong and had allies hidden in plain sight, of that it was becoming increasingly clear.  
  
“I can’t stop,” Dorian admitted with a laugh. “With each sip I think, ‘it can’t be _that_ bad, can it?’”  
  
“Based on the change in your pallor,” Mahanon said, pointing a finger at the other mage’s face as he gripped his own mug and then waving his hand about as though to indicate the whole mage, sloppily spilling some of his own drink over his hands in the process. “I’m going to say that it absolutely is _that_ bad. The fact you haven’t been sick yet is honestly the most impressive piece.”  
  
“Naturally I’m impressive,” Dorian replied smugly, giving the Inquisitor a little wink before taking yet another swig from whatever it was that was in his mug. “Though I will say, it has quite the effect on my nausea. Bartender! Another!”  
  
Mahanon and Blackwall laughed again at that and while their mugs were busy getting refilled, Mahanon took the opportunity to look about the tavern. Even at such a late hour it was still packed with people. The bard continued to play on and on into the night and while not all of their rag-tag band was at the bar certainly a good few were.   
  
Iron Bull was in the corner likely flirting his way into the pants of yet another occupant of Skyhold – the man was going to catch something at this rate, he was just sure of it. Varric, Cullen, and a good smattering of the soldiers and scouts had pushed together a couple of tables to play a vary large game of Wicked Grace. Sera was clearly sloshed and dancing about, her loud laugh floating about the sounds of the filled tavern as she did so and giving absolutely not one fuck what anyone thought of her dance moves. A good thing really, as if she had cared even one whit she would have been properly embarrassed.   
  
“You’re just a drunkard with terrible taste,” Blackwall teased Dorian as he took another swig of his newly-filled mug. Mahanon’s attention shifted back to the two other men at the bar and laughed as he shook his head at the other two men, taking another drink from his own mug as well.  
  
“There is that, but my taste can’t be all _that_ bad,” Dorian admitted and the last bit almost sounded like a bit of a purr though Mahanon was certain it was more an effect of too much ale. That is, until Dorian’s knee bumped into his own and making him choke which only made the other two men laugh. So hard, in fact, that Dorian proceeded to nearly fall out of his chair though Mahanon reached out quickly to help in steadying the man.  
  
“Alright, Dorian,” Mahanon said with a chuckle, setting down his drink and standing up. “I think it’s about time I dragged you back to the Keep.”  
  
“Back to the study, is it?” Dorian asked as Mahanon threw one of the mage’s arms over his shoulders and wrapped his other around Dorian’s waist in an effort to keep the man steady. “Well, I suppose. I do rather enjoy studying.”  
  
The way he said the last bit made Mahanon think that he was speaking of things that weren’t in books. With a single glance over to the salacious grin that was on Dorian’s face, Mahanon’s cheeks reddened and he felt the burn go all the way up to his ears. Whatever it was that was on Dorian’s mind, it was most certainly _not_ books. Shaking his head he excused it as just the alcohol talking and bid good-night to Blackwall, who seemed to get a right laugh out of whatever expression was on Mahanon’s face.  
  
On the way back he nodded to Lysette who stood on night patrol. “How goes the night? Are you warm?” It was such a small and seemingly obvious thing to ask, but he could tell by the way Lysette smiled a bit that just the fact that he had thought to ask on such a chilly night touched her.  
  
“Warm enough, Inquisitor. Have a good night.”  
  
As the stumbled up the stairs to the main hub of Skyhold, Dorian commented, “I could watch you roam Skyhold all day.” Mahanon promptly tripped at the comment, though he caught himself before either of them could greet the stone under their feet. “Here and there you run, checking in on your followers. Why don’t they come to you, feed you grapes, rub your shoulders?”  
  
Mahanon had to laugh at that notion, alien as it was.  
  
“Oh well, I suppose it’s more fun this way,” the other mage sighed. “For me, I mean. You’re rather strapping.”  
  
And there was the blush again, burning his cheeks and all the way up to his ears. He wasn’t sure if it was more because of the blush or the drink but either way what decided to pop out of his mouth – completely without his consent – was, “I’ve noticed you’re rather strapping yourself.”  
  
“Of course you did. That only takes eyes.”  
  
“Luckily I have those,” Mahanon quipped with a laugh.  
  
“You do, a rather fetching pair.” Again with that purring tone! At least this time when he tripped they were at the top of the stairs, so it was considerably easier to catch his footing again with the help of the handrails. In doing so, however, he had to let go of Dorian’s waist as he spun a bit and pressed a hand to the rail though he kept a firm grasp on Dorian’s arm and brought the other man closer to him in an attempt to keep him from falling down the stairs.  
  
He had known with that manoeuvre that Dorian would be leaning up against Manahon’s back unless the other mage actually managed to get his feet steady underneath him, but what he had not been prepared for was the fact that Dorian would be _sniffing_ his hair. Or the feeling of Dorian’s hand grasping his hip. Or the fact that he all but groaned into Mahanon’s ear, “Mm, Inquisitor, you smell positively _delicious_.”  
  
Nope. Nope, nope, nope, he had _not_ expected that. Grasping Dorian’s arm in both of his hands he used his body to force Dorian to move the last bit up the stairs and then twisted so that the momentum forced Dorian’s back against the stone wall next to the doors to Skyhold before taking a step back. With a heavy sigh he reached up a hand to his forehead, the heat on his face quickly warming his palm before he ran his fingers through his locks. _He’s drunk,_ Mahanon told himself. One look up at the other man through what locks hung in front of his eyes confirmed it. _He’s just very, very drunk._  
  
It wasn’t like he disliked the attention; it was, in fact, the first time he had gotten such attention in a rather long while that he did enjoy. More he just didn’t know what to do with it. For all his passing flirtations with a grand total of two other people in his life, none of them had been quite like…whatever the hell this was. They had been passing members of another clan and Dorian was very much a fixture in his life. Plus he was fairly sure Dorian flirted like this with everyone. Between that and the fact that the other man just seemed to always be joking, it was hard to tell if any of his comments were genuine.  
  
“Oh Inquisitor, like to be a bit rough, do you?” Dorian purred again before laughing.  
  
 _Very, very drunk,_ Mahanon repeated to himself. But before he could say anything, Dorian leaned forward just enough to grab on to the end of the belt Mahanon wore atop his waist sash and pulled it with a jerk. With the sure footing he had developed from so many fights, it only managed to get him to stumble a step, just enough that the length of leather hung lax between them. With a heavy sigh Mahanon opened his mouth to say something, but was abruptly cut off ad Dorian spun to lean over the side of the railing and proceed to vomit the poison he had so willingly been ingesting all night.  
  
It was enough to make Mahanon laugh, the heartbeat that had been hammering in his ears just moments before gradually quieting. “Right, let’s get you inside then,” he said once it seemed like Dorian’s vomiting was subsiding. Dorian pulled out a handkerchief from gods knows where really – perhaps all those intricate layers hid pockets – and wiped at his mouth as Mahanon draped Dorian’s arm over his shoulders again and brought him the rest of the way into the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell I'm trying to give the conversations a bit more context, still using the lines but just altering the happenstance slightly. They always seemed a bit disjointed in the game to me. Comment or kudo if you think I'm doing a good job, or even leave suggestions and thoughts in the comments.


	10. Letters

“Inquisitor?” His eyes darted to Mother Giselle immediately and his pace slowed to a stop beside her as she continued, “If you have a moment?”  
  
“Yes, of course Mother,” he said, giving her a respectful bow of the head. Just because he didn’t believe in the church didn’t mean he couldn’t be respectful towards them, and Mother Giselle more than most had helped the Inquisition and the refugees that flooded to them.   
  
“Inquisitor, it is good of you to speak with me. I have news regarding one of your…companions.” Just the way she led up to that much had him on edge. He had been watching Blackwall and Solas with such caution as of late, even Cassandra had noticed. Was it possible that Mother Giselle had as well and perhaps done a bit of her own digging? The woman didn’t seem the digging sort but he didn’t put anything past anyone anymore. “The Tevinter,” she finally clarified and he practically sighed with relief.  
  
Of course of all of the people he travelled with Dorian would be the one she had the most issue with. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. The Chantry hadn’t exactly taken well to Tevinter in the first place and Cassandra had commented that Dorian’s presence alone would bring question to their alliances. It had been all the more reason that he had tried to act the way he was always hearing a leader should. “Is that a note of distaste I detect, Mother Giselle?” he asked with a smirk.  
  
Her admission that she was not particularly fond of the man didn’t surprise him – he would have been more shocked had she said she was quite a fan of his – but the next thing that came out of her mouth damn near floored him. “I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”  
  
Instantly his shoulders tensed again. In fact, he was familiar with them. Between all their travelling and studying together, he had heard quite a good deal about the family and none of it had made him particularly inclined to be excited about the notion that they were in any way aware of where Dorian was. “Familiar? We have never met if that is what you are suggesting,” he said carefully.  
  
It was enough to get her to verbally back away a bit, asserting that she was not trying to suggest anything and then making vague comments about why Dorian was no longer in Tevinter. The truth was, he didn’t know why Dorian had left. It wasn’t like many mages, especially ones of powerful families, left Tevinter every day and so while he was certain there was some story behind it all he didn’t know much about it. Nor had he ever pressed for details. It was Dorian’s business he figured. If the other man wanted to talk about it, he would.   
  
Hearing Mother Giselle now though… It was an effort not to clench his jaw or fist his hands. Over the time he had come to consider Dorian rather a confidant and a good friend. He was one of the few people Mahanon felt he could truly discuss the pressures of being Inquisitor with, one of if not the only person in Skyhold that had experienced similar pressures. The suggestion of him tricking Dorian into meeting with his family, whom he was so clearly not on good terms with, did not sit well with Mahanon. Perhaps he might have felt differently if he knew or even strongly suspected the distance between Dorian and his family were over some trivial squabble but, knowing the Tevinter man as he did, he sincerely doubted that was the case.  
  
He wasn’t going to trick Dorian into this no matter what Mother Giselle had to say, but still if they were going to walk into this he would not lead them in blind. The first pressing question on his mind was simply why – why in the world would they be contacting Mother Giselle?  
  
“Because they don’t know you, Inquisitor. I may not be of the Imperial Chantry but they know what I represent,” she explained rather simply. It made sense, certainly, but something also told him based on the rest of their words that they were also relying on the Mother to have a bleeding heart. Coming to her as concerned parents? What in earth could be concerning about Dorian being in the Inquisition? Did they not see the debauchery in their very backyard? Perhaps Dorian was right in condemning the blindness of his fellow country man. “Thus I come to you. If any good can come of this, we must try,” she pleaded of him.  
  
He didn’t often _feel_ cold, but this did make him feel that way. Cold and angry. A dangerous combination. But still he kept his expression detached in the way he was becoming increasingly adept at doing. “Are you sure this isn’t a trap? I mean the secrecy…”  
  
“That did occur to me,” she admitted. “What if it is another plot of those mages? The Venatori?” If he were honest he hadn’t suspected the Venatori in the slightest, though now that she mentioned it he supposed that was also possible. It was all the more reason to bring the matter to him, she said, and that was fair. The fact was that there were wolves in their midst waiting for someone to make a misstep so that the number of the Inquisition would diminish, or strike a blow to a known companion of the Inquisitor… “I pray that isn’t the case, but if it is, you are far better equipped than I to respond to such treachery.”  
  
Indeed he was. For all that she had been as transparent with him as she could be, he still felt it was in his best interest to play it close to the chest. With a nod he said, “I’ll see what I can do. I must be off to my training exercises, however. Thank you, Mother Giselle.”  
  
Her words barely fell on his ears, large as they were, as she handed him the note she had been mailed. He had no reason to think that she was lying when she said that all she wanted for Dorian was for his happiness, but still there was a part of him who had a hard time believing her.   
  
Turning his back to her he opened the note she had handed him and read over the contents himself. According to its scrawling contents all that the Magister wished to do was talk to his son, beg for him to come back home and something in the way the contents were worded made him think that the man was sincere in his desire. The fact that he was so insistent upon the meeting being hurled upon his son in what was sure to be an unpleasant surprise however… Dorian was proud, Mahanon couldn’t deny that, and perhaps he was too proud to admit to wanting to meet his own father but not for a moment did he think that Dorian was so proud that he would get in his own way like that. Dorian truly seemed to miss his family despite his obvious distaste for them and Mahanon was convinced that whatever had happened…whatever blame there could be was not at Dorian’s feet.   
  
Sure he could have been glorifying the other mage since he had so many positive connotations of him, giving him credit where none was due, but it was simply a feeling he had. The fact that the goal of this meeting was to take Dorian away though…  
  
With a suppressed growl Mahanon resisted the all too powerful urge to crumple up the note and burn it – he had to at least tell Dorian, give Dorian the choice himself – and instead folded it neatly until he could fit it into the pocket of his training breeches. If he hadn’t been excited to hit the tar out of the training dummies and whatever else Commander Helaine threw his way before, he sure as fuck was now.  
  



	11. Aren't We?

From time-to-time Helaine focused on one-handed combat with him and today seemed to be that day. The rational was pretty simple: at times the mark caused him great pain what with the whole closing of rifts in the fade everywhere they went and near-constant fighting and even if it didn’t hurt him he was wounded often enough in battle that he needed to know how to defend himself with the use of one of his arms. The fact that he rarely travelled with anyone who knew more than just the most rudimentary of healing magics only further solidified her argument. For all that he was a mage it wasn’t uncommon that the party would limp back into camp with an empty sack of healing potions and self-satisfied smiles on their faces.  
  
What was more she was also adamant that he learn how to use his staff as a Bo staff. When he had first heard about it he had been thrown off and even laughed, misunderstanding her words for saying she wanted him to use a _bow_ as a _staff_. I mean sure technically he could use anything, it wasn’t like mages _needed_ to use a staff it was just a lot easier, but all it took was for her to kick his staff away from his and spin to hit him over the head with it for him to see the value in such fighting.  
  
They were both immensely useful forms of combat and if he were honest, finding new ways to hit and fight excited him in a way that magic never had. Magic, while interesting, had always been easier to him. It was hard to think of something he sometimes did on reflex or on accident as anything but easy. What made magic difficult was the control and discipline it required. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed all the different forms of fighting so much, though even he had to admit that sometimes it just felt good to beat the piss out of something.  
  
So when Commander Helaine told him that he was both using his staff as a Bo staff _and_ alternating fighting using only one hand – and alternating as soon as she barked out which hand was to be disabled and doing nothing but hanging limply at his side – he had been more than pleased. He hated the mentality that every battle was to be training for the next one. Training was to be his training for the next fight; enough caught him off guard that he refused to allow a fight to be one of them.  
  
“Left!”  
  
He swapped to his right hand, using the momentum of his moving body and the swinging weight of his staff to better twist around to slam the staff under the arm of the training dummy. Pushing against it he used the push back to spin back around and slam the staff into the nape of the neck, each time his swung resting the staff under her arm and under his shoulder to keep it steady as his left hang hung uselessly at his side. He remembered the first time he had seen Helaine do the manoeuvre and he had thought it so easy that had he had even dared to roll his eyes. It was an expression quickly knocked off his face when she had lowered herself down to the ground, held the other end of the staff under her opposite arm, and used the left of the wood to swipe and nearly knock his feet out from under him. Something he now moved to repeat.  
  
The problem with only using one hand though was that his grip never felt steady enough on the staff, and his weight was never quite evenly spread. He was keenly aware of the deficiencies every time he moved and swung the staff and while he was always trying to correct them, it was more difficult to fix than he had first imagined. Helaine reminded him of it frequently though, as she did now. During his movement to spin back to a standing position she lunged forward and grabbed the staff in both of her hands, quickly ripping it from his one-handed grasp and twisting her body to use his own momentum against him as she hit him in the back to send him face-first on the ground.  
  
“You’re distracted,” she said in that blasé way she had. He really did have to have her teach him how to do that – sound both immensely bored of whatever it was that was happening and yet so commanding that the thought of ignoring her was a bit scary. “Thinking about other things.”  
  
Well no shit, he almost said. In just a few weeks he had to leave for the Winter Palace in Orlais and, between the whispers he had heard and the news Josephine had shared, it sounded like he would either usurp the current empress and aid in seating a new head on the throne or bite the very hand that had invited them to the damned thing and hope there wasn’t a swift kick to pay. Oh, and he also had the ancient magister-turned-darkspawn running about trying to cause the end of the world and missing Wardens who very well might be getting manipulated by said magister…darkspawn…thing. And those were just the big-ticket items on his schedule.   
  
After that he had these growing feelings he was developing for one of his comrades, the singular man he truly confided in. Complicated enough frankly to have this sort of affection for someone who had become a friend to him, but now as though that weren’t enough he had a _gods damned letter from Dorian’s father in his back pocket._ Probably stained with sweat and dirt at this point, it occurred to him.  
  
Throw that all together with a growing number of people fighting under a banner and chanting his name, putting all their faith in him to _save the gods damned world…_ “You don’t say,” he said finally, and though he intended for it to sound like a light hearted quip he was afraid that a bit of the frustration he was feeling leaked into the words and gave it a bit of a sharper tone. Pushing himself up from the ground he shifted to take a more comfortable seating position on the ground, pulling up one leg and resting his elbow on his knee as he cradled his forehead in his palm. “Remind me again, which of the world’s problems wasn’t supposed to be on my mind again?”  
  
For all her jagged edges at times Helaine showed a slightly softer side to her and now seemed to be one of the times she showed it. Shifting to sit down beside him, she rolled his staff back to him. “It is true, you have more on your shoulders than anyone could imagine. That you don’t crack under the weight is a sign of your strength in and of itself.”  
  
“Is that an option?” he commented with a short, strangled laugh and a shake of his head. “I just don’t know what to do,” he admitted with a heavy sigh after a moment of silence, shifting to lean back on his arms as he looked up through the tree branches above them. For a moment, just a moment, he felt all the tension leave his body as his mind drifted to simpler times when he and his clan lived isolated in the forest.  
  
“What must be done first?” It seemed like such a simple question coming from her.  
  
“I suppose the first thing is to talk to Dorian. Then, if he wishes, take him to Redcliff,” he mused, never taking his eyes from the leaves above them.  
  
She didn’t ask any questions, she never did. Whether it was her nature or something that had been trained into her she simply accepted whatever he said, whenever he said it, and never asked for anything more. He didn’t think he had ever expressed to her how much he appreciated that and made a mental note to do so as, from the corner of his eye, he noted how she nodded at his words. A simple, to-the-point nod as though he had told her an utter truth. Everyone else around him had questions, demanded explanations about everything he did. If he made or said even one thing wrong he heard about it for weeks, from both everyone and no one all at once. But Helaine simply heard him, heard what he felt needed to be done first, and nodded before saying, “Do that then.”  
  
That simple. Could it be that simple? “How do you do that?” he asked.  
  
Even without looking at her he could tell she wore that sternly inquisitive expression she sometimes had, both asking and demanding an explanation or a dismissal of the subject without saying a word. Yet another thing she really had to teach him some time.  
  
“You always just…accept. Simplify,” he explained.  
  
He only faintly saw her shrug her shoulders. “Perhaps it is too many days on the battlefield. Some Knight-Enchanters, such as your companion Vivienne there, were both to cut through the intricacies of political scenes and courtly intrigue. She will have a great hand in things, but with the subtlety and healing hand that bespeaks her nature, a lowered sword in hand to use if needed only.  
  
“Others, however, are forged on the battlefields. Others, like us, are forged by fire and ice. Melted down till there is almost nothing of our original shape left, moulded into something new, and drowned in ice water to harden. People like you and I are made for the battle field and the battle field is a remarkably simple place.”  
  
“We aren’t on a battlefield though,” he said with a sigh, rolling his head to look at her.  
  
She shifted her head just slightly though her chin remained high and proud as she looked down at him and raised a brow. Perhaps it was just his imagination but he could have sworn a corner of her mouth twitched up into a knowing smirk as she looked down at him. “Aren’t we?”


	12. Privilege

He wasn’t really looking forward to this. Mahanon knew minimal of Dorian’s family drama but from what little he did know it wasn’t exactly a simple misunderstanding that could be smoothed over with some “so sorrys” and “oopsies.” So what Dorian’s reaction would be at hearing that his father had sent a letter would be…questionable to say the least. The man could be overjoyed, though he sincerely doubted it, or he could catch fire to the whole library.  
  
Alright Mahanon was more likely to do that with his propensity to fire but still.  
  
The fact that Dorian flashed a smirk his way when he noticed Mahanon trudging towards their usual book shelves didn’t really do anything to make any of it easier. The man was clearly in a good mood and, like it or not, Mahanon was probably about to thoroughly ruin it.  
  
“Here to study Orlesian politics again?” Dorian asked. “I suppose it’s only natural with the ball in just a couple weeks.” Mahanon stopped just a few feet shy of the other man and focused his gaze on the books behind Dorian, clenching and unclenching his jaw. After a few moments of silence Dorian seemed to notice and looked over at Mahanon more quizzically, his grey hues roaming over Mahanon’s lithe form. He must have been a sight given that he came straight from training: hair still a bit damp from sweat and all over the place, clothes covered in the dust of the training pit, the off-white linen shirt he had put on this morning now covered in dirt and unlaced at the next.  
  
Actually, come to think of it, he had no idea where the threads that laced up the top of his shirt was. He could have sworn it was there this morning.  
  
“Looks like someone is in another one of their moods,” Dorian teased with a grin. “And here usually training takes it out of you. Maybe you need to do a different sort of activity.”  
  
Damn him and his traitorous cheeks for turning a soft pink at that comment. Clearing his throat and quickly focusing on the scrap of paper in his pocket he said, “Dorian, there’s a letter you need to see.”  
  
“Ooh! A _naughty_ letter? A humorous proposal from an Antivan dowager?”  
  
He almost laughed at that. “Not quite,” he admitted. “It’s from your father.”  
  
At that all humour drained from Dorian’s face and left in its wake was likely the gravest expression he had ever seen the other mage dawn. Usually Mahanon was the one with the grim expressions. “My father? I see. And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”  
  
It didn’t take long for Dorian’s mind to go to a place somewhere between what Mahanon’s had and Mother Giselle. The fact that now three people – one of whom intimately knew the Magister – all thought the same thing to some degree told him that there was very possibly some truth to the matter. He did his best to soothe the concerns though, letting Dorian know in no uncertain terms that he would defend the other mage absolutely should such a thing occur.  
  
At the comment about how Mahanon was good at killing people he couldn’t really stop himself from wincing, though Dorian seemed to hardly notice. For all that Mahanon did kill people all the time, it wasn’t exactly something he liked to do and certainly didn’t want to be considered good at it. Though he supposed if the choice was between being good at killing people of being killed himself, the choice were an easy one and one that he had to make all too often.  
  
“There seems to be bad blood between you and your family,” Mahanon noted and it wasn’t until the Tevinter burst out laughing that he realised the choice of words and permitted himself to give a small laugh as well. Bad blood. Tevinter. Blood magic. Gods he was eloquent. Probably a good thing that they weren’t in some public gathering where he would have caught disapproving scowls from all around.  
  
Dorian remarked upon it as well once he had finished laughing but refused to really offer any sort of explanation other than what Mahanon already knew. His parents didn’t care for his decisions and he for theirs. Fair enough, certainly the other man didn’t owe him any answers but he had to admit he was still curious. Perhaps he spoke from a place of privilege but he had simply never thought to leave his family before. Even now so far away from his clan he couldn’t imagine any reason enough to leave them. His clan was very different from the rest of the world though, as he had learned more and more during his travels.  
  
It was strange, really, to have had so much privilege and have never realised it. Seeing and hearing how the rest of the world seemed to operate was more humbling than he had initially thought it would be.  
  
Whatever it was that had pulled Dorian from his family though he wouldn’t pry any further. The other man didn’t exactly seem inclined to talk about it and Mahanon, frankly, had enough shit on his plate. If Dorian wanted to talk about it at some point then he would be there absolutely, but if not…well, that was his prerogative.  
  
“Let’s go meet this retainer, then,” Mahanon said. “I’ll have Dennet get the horses ready.” It wasn’t often that they used the horses honestly but given the time crunch of them needing to be back within the week to finish preparing for the trip to Orlais and the fact that the retainer likely wouldn’t be around that long it was worth it.  
  
Shaking his head at Dorian’s musings, whatever had seemed to come over the other man when he first heard of the letter now gone, he told the man to meet him at the stables within an hour at latest. Four horses wouldn’t take that long to ready, of that he was sure. Catching one of the boys that worked in the castle as he passed by, Mahanon told him to fetch Cassandra and Sera and tell them to meet at the front gate. “Tell them to bring supplies enough for a week,” he added as the lad scampered off.  
  
True to form Dennet was able to ready the horses within a short time, though Mahanon did catch a raised brow. No questions though, thank the gods. As he and Master Dennet walked the horses to the front gate he could see Sera, Cassandra, and Dorian waiting, satchels in hand. Well, everyone except for Cassandra who held two.  
  
“Were you really going to leave with just the clothes on your back?”  
  
As though she hadn’t already known the answer. Mahanon smirked at Cassandra and took the satchel, tying it to the saddle of his Dalish All-Bred. One guess why that one was his mount of choice. “Of course not,” he said. “You’re just that predictable.” With a grunt of displeasure Cassandra knocked against his back playfully as she moved to tie her own belongings to one of the horses and it was enough to get Mahanon to laugh. “Hey now! We can’t all be mysterious.”  
  
“Says the Dalish elf on the Dalish horse,” Cassandra commented as she lifted herself to the saddle. It only took minutes for them to all be mounted and ready from there.  
  
“I have my moments,” Mahanon admitted with a grin flashed Cassandra’s way and another laugh as she rolled her eyes at his antics.


	13. A Bigger Man Than He

  
The tone all the way to Redcliff wasn’t exactly morose but that was pretty much because Sera refused to let it be. Whenever she had a chance she was saying or doing something outrageous if only to keep the energy from bottoming out in their party. Once there the tension was palpable however, and even Sera seemed to pick up on something being wrong though neither Dorian nor Mahanon had told either of them the nature of their sudden trip. In part that was because Mahanon himself didn’t even know for sure. Ultimately though there just wasn’t any reason to tell them he supposed – they were there to meet with a messenger and armed in case it was an attack as it seemed so often to be.  
  
Once at the Gull and Lantern, Mahanon told Cassandra and Sera to position themselves outside and be prepared just in case. Knowing Sera she would take the chance to climb to the top of the roof; a quirky habit of hers but useful he had to admit. More than a few times she had been able to spot enemies from such vantage points and give them an edge while hailing arrows down on them.  
  
When they entered the tavern and found it to be empty, Mahanon was certain it would be an ambush and moved his hand to rest on the hilt of his spirit blade, ready to draw it should the need arise. The thought seemed to be echoed by Dorian who commented in that jovial manner of his, “Uh oh. Nobody’s here. This doesn’t bode well.”  
  
He was about to holler over his shoulder for the others to come in and summon his blade when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Though he gripped the hilt of the blade firmly he watched carefully, examining the man who emerged from the stairwell with caution. He hadn’t really met too many people from Tevinter but based on the similarities in their features, Mahanon had a split second of wondering if all ‘Vints had that olive skin and dark hair. When the other man spoke however he immediately knew the man before them was Dorian’s father. It could have been because of how he said Dorian’s name, or perhaps it was the similar timbre of the voice but he just felt certain even before the other mage spoke.  
  
“Father… So the whole story about the ‘family retainer’ was just…what? A smoke screen?”  
  
“Then you were told.” Something in the Magister’s tone seemed to be almost…heartbroken. Not that Mahanon was really keen enough on the man thus far to care over much. Between what little Dorian said on their adventures through the hills and what he had confided in Mahanon during some of their chats the elf had a hard time feeling much for the Magister than…whatever the hell his shoulders being tense was. “I apologise for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for _you_ to be involved.”  
  
Honestly Mahanon was rather proud of himself for not snapping at the man just then. Perhaps all those lessons with Josephine really were paying off. How had the Magister thought for one moment that Mahanon _wouldn’t_ be involved? Dorian was a known and frequent companion of the Inquisitor, seen rather frequently when the Inquisitor travelled. To think that somehow Mahanon wouldn’t have at least accompanied Dorian to the tavern in question to assure his safety…to think that Mahanon was in any realm of possibility going to hide this meeting from Dorian…  
  
 _This isn’t about you¸_ he had to remind himself, forcing his clenched jaw and shoulders to relax. _You are here just in case Dorian needs help. That is it._  
  
“Of course not,” Dorian practically hissed. The tone was all that Mahanon needed to hear to know that Dorian was feeling just as tense as he was – if not more so. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think? What is this exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping?” Just the suggestion was enough for Mahanon to tighten his grip on that hilt once more. “ _Warm family reunion?_ ”  
  
Dorian’s father let out a heavy sigh and it made him think of all the times his Keeper had sighed the same way when Mahanon had been being petulant. “This is how it has always been.”  
  
Nope, pretty sure sending furtive letters in the dark in an attempt to trick a child to meet in an old tavern in the middle of Fereldan was _not_ how it had always been. Call him a sceptic.  
  
“You went through all of this to get Dorian here. Talk to him.” Gods was he ever proud of himself for not sounding as pissed as he was feeling. He really did have to send Josephine a basket of...something. Or maybe just a vacation.  
  
“Yes, Father. Talk to me. Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger.”  
  
“Dorian, there’s no need to—”  
  
“I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”  
  
Wait. What? Mahanon had to blink a couple of times at that, and even all of Josephine’s lessons weren’t enough for him to be able to train his face against the expression of shock he now wore. To be fair they focused usually on hiding his anger – Mahanon wasn’t really shocked too often after the whole “big hole in the sky and only your magical fingers can fix it” and “by the way there’s an ancient magister and he and his pet archdemon want you dead” bits.  
  
“That’s…a big concern in Tevinter then?” Mahanon blurted. Was he really _that_ sheltered? Alright scratch that, the more he travelled the more he realised exactly how sheltered his Dalish upbringing had been. But fuck, was that actually a _thing_?  
  
Looking between the two men he chastised himself for the thought. Of course it was a thing. It was at least enough of a thing that it had made Dorian feel as though he had to leave his homeland just so he could be himself. It was just…no one had cared about that sort of thing in his clan. Sexuality was a fluid thing, like water, they had all been taught. Sometimes it only flows south, other times only north, sometimes there was a split in the stream and it went both ways. No one had batted an eye when he had been in a flirtation with a female elf one summer and then a male one the next. He thought, naively he now realised, that it was just an accepted thing everywhere.  
  
“Only if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard,” Dorian said. With a quick thought to Krem though Mahanon wasn’t entirely sure how true that really was though. Krem had, after all, also had felt like he had to leave his homeland because he was thought of as “deviant.” “Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distil the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind,” Dorian continued. “The perfect leader.”  
  
 _Sounds like, in that way, the highest echelons treat themselves not too unlike the lowest,_ Mahanon thought, remembering how slaves in Tevinter were also sometimes bred to create the perfect slave based on their specific purpose. He had always thought the variances in people were what made them the most interesting, though that wasn’t always a good thing. That it was the differences that allowed people as a whole to progress and grow.  
  
“It means every perceived flaw – every aberration – is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden.” Mahanon couldn’t even imagine that. Any of it. But it was all starting to make a lot more sense. He had known Dorian hadn’t left Tevinter just because the other mage was against blood magic, he had known there was something else to it. He just hadn’t expected the fact that Dorian was gay to be it.  
  
The look of pure shame on the Magister’s face however was proof enough that it was true. “So that’s what all this is about? Who you sleep with?” Mahanon blurted again, then winced at his own lack of control.  
  
“That’s not all this is about…” It wasn’t often that Mahanon got to hear that growling tone in Dorian’s voice and suddenly he felt particularly out of his depth. From the way Dorian spoke it sounded very much as though there had perhaps been a man in Dorian’s past…and that man was now being spoken of very much in the past tense. Had his father had a lover of his killed? Mahanon couldn’t even fathom such a thing, but it was the only thing he could think of from the way Dorian spoke. But then, when it was revealed that his father had tried to _change_ Dorian… His blood was immediately set to boiling, whatever temper had quieted before now coming back in full force.  
  
The other man claimed to have only wanted what was best for his son but even in Mahanon’s increasingly evident sheltered life he knew that changing a person like that wasn’t what you did. You could change your child’s outfit, change the way your child spoke of things, educate them…but changing _that_. _How_ Dorian’s father had tried to change him though… Deep inside he knew, he knew it had to have been blood magic – what else could even potentially change someone in that way? – but he pushed the knowledge so deep down in him that he could pretend it wasn’t there. Because if he didn’t, he was going to launch himself across the bar and give the Magister the bloodiest death he could.  
  
That was, simply, not his place. This was Dorian’s father and so it was Dorian’s right to decide how to proceed. Even if all Mahanon could think about right then was killing the Magister himself.  
  
“You wanted the best for _you!_ For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!” Dorian shouted, and the way his voice broke brought Mahanon abruptly back to the here and now.  
  
Moving to stand next to Dorian at the bar he took a deep breath against the raging emotions in him. The fact that he could no longer see Magister Pavus helped significantly. _This is Dorian’s fight,_ he reminded himself. _Your feelings don’t matter._ What could he say though? He didn’t want to tell Dorian how to handle his own shit, but he could also tell that the other man needed something said to figure out how to best proceed with this shit-show of a family reunion. “Don’t leave it like this, Dorian,” he finally said. “You’ll never forgive yourself.”  
  
It was about the most neutral thing he could imagine saying. Sure, he wanted nothing more than for Dorian to launch himself across the place and murder the piece of nugshite but it was his choice. However Dorian wanted to leave it, Mahanon had to remember that it was his choice.  
  
Forgiveness, however, seemed to be what Dorian wanted the most. There was only a brief exchange between the two before Dorian gave Mahanon a look that let him know that Dorian would be fine. That it was safe to leave Dorian alone with his father. And though he didn’t quite understand it in his current emotional state, Mahanon had to respect it. It took more than Mahanon could safely say he had in order to still seek understanding and forgiveness with such a man. So he offered his friend a small smile and a nod and left the tavern so the two men could speak, truly, in private.


	14. Idiot

The trip back to Skyhold was more quiet than the trip out, but this time it was because of Mahanon’s seething rage more than anything else. The others did talk a bit amongst themselves, even Dorian was cracking some jokes, but Mahanon just…couldn’t. He needed to do something. Run, hit something, punch someone – _something_. So once they finally got back to the keep he was quick to excuse himself from everyone, leading the horse back to Master Dennet and helping him to remove their saddles and take care of them as much as he could.  
  
He shouldn’t have been surprised really, but a part of him was nonetheless when he went straight to the training ground after assisting with the horses and found Cassandra waiting there for him. Despite the fact that she seemed to haunt the training ground as much as he did, it was clear that she was waiting for him. There was only one reason the woman would had been waiting with her arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the tree, and only bothered to look up and push herself from the tree when he arrived.  
  
He was surprised, but he was also immensely grateful. She had no clue why he was as upset as he was, but she also wasn’t blind. No words were exchanged between them, no social niceties or “do you want to talk about it?” He simply reached into a nearby barrel full of the iron swords they supplied the soldiers as she drew her own blade and he charged at her with a yell.  
  
The weight of the blade was unfamiliar, his own spirit blade so much lighter than he had realised, but the extra exertion was needed. He didn’t care right then that it was good practice, that being decent with his summoned blade was only so useful if he couldn’t use a real sword just as proficiently. He didn’t care to check his expression on his face, to temper the rage he finally let slip free. He just swung the sword, fighting Cassandra like she were truly his enemy.  
  
From an outside perspective he looked very much the wild Dalish warrior that so many feared and had Cassandra not known him as well as she did, she might he thought him more the rabid beast many thought the Dalish of being than he was. But she did know him, perhaps in some ways better than he knew himself, and while she didn’t know what had happened in that tavern she could guess it wasn’t good. Whatever had happened it was clear to anyone who had eyes that Mahanon had feelings for Dorian, and Dorian and his father had some very bad history.  
  
So she said nothing, made no noise except for her grunts as she parried and blocked Mahanon’s swings. While he definitely wasn’t as good with a normal sword, his swings were made all the more predictable with the anger he was letting out. The swings had a great deal of power behind them, much more than one would have thought they would have given how lithe and lean the man was, but they were slower than normal and easy to block in their predictability.  
  
It wasn’t for about an hour that he finally seemed to slow down, both of them drenched in sweat and Mahanon panting heavily from the exertion. The rage that had been in his eyes though was finally lessened, leaving the man Cassandra knew in their wake. “Who do you imagine me to be?” she asked finally, once she felt she had enough breath.  
  
It sounded like such a simple question, but in Mahanon’s mind it wasn’t. A part of him wanted to confide in Cassandra, tell her all that had transpired, but it wasn’t his place to do so. It was Dorian’s story to tell at the end of the day. That being said, however, he wasn’t going to lie to her and say it was nothing. He may not owe her an explanation but he owed her more than a blatant lie. “A blood mage.” Not an entire lie, anyway.  
  
She didn’t say anything to that, nor did he expect her to. Turning from him she walked back to the tree she had been leaning against and bent down to retrieve something. Moving towards her he leaned against the tree before sliding down to sit at the base of it, leaning his head against the bark as he allowed himself to finally cool off. An action she quickly followed before holding out a water skein to him.  
  
Cassandra really didn’t get enough credit for what she did, both for him and the Inquisition. She was the level head that helped to balance everything, the pragmatist that sought to understand his actions even if she didn’t agree with them, and the friend who was always at your back. There were times he wished that he had more feelings for her, he couldn’t help but think that she would be an amazing partner, but he was just glad to have her in his corner.  
  
Taking the skein from her he thanked her before taking a deep swig of it. “I don’t know what happened in there,” she said after another long moment of silence. “But whatever it was it must not have been easy.”  
  
He almost wanted to scoff at that. Not easy? All he had done was not murder a man in a fit of rage. Hardy an accomplishment, really.  
  
“You clearly care for him a great deal,” she ventured.  
  
That part caught him off guard and he jerked a bit at the words. Dorian? He supposed he did, though if he were honest he hadn’t ever bothered to think on it too deeply. He just enjoyed the man’s company and confided in him. Sure he wanted to do a lot with the other mage, but that was just desire he figured. It was hard to look at the man and not think him attractive. But he had never stopped to wonder if maybe the reason he sought Dorian’s company so often was because of feelings.  
  
It only took about two seconds of thought though to realise that Cassandra had a point though. Seeking the man out all the time, confiding in him…then with what almost seemed to happen the other night…  
  
“Fuck, I’m an idiot,” Mahanon groaned after a minute, rubbing his face with his hand.  
  
Reaching over to take her water skein back she flashed a grin at him and jerked her chin back at the keep. “Go, wash up and find him.”  
  
“You really deserve a raise or something, you know that?” Mahanon said as he pushed himself up, picking up the sword he had laid down in the grass and putting it back in the barrel with the others.  
  
“The fact that it took you this long to realise that just proves the whole ‘idiot’ bit. Go.”


	15. Into the Snow You Go

  
Once he didn’t smell like sweat and stables, he made his way towards the library, certain that Dorian would be hiding in his usual spot there. He wasn’t wrong. Perhaps Dorian had seen him coming in from the training yard as well, anticipated that the Inquisitor was coming to check on him. It only occurred to him belatedly that Dorian had a perfect view of the training hard from his usual spot in the library – the only window in fact to have a perfect view of it. He would think more on that later though.  
  
“He says we’re alike,” Dorian said without preamble.  
  
 _Don’t snort, don’t snort, don’t snort,_ Mahanon repeated in his head. The idea that the two men were anything alike was laughable to him, but he was pretty damned sure that saying as much wasn’t going to help anything.  
  
“Too much pride,” Dorian continued. “Once, I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”  
  
 _I mean I would have killed him so I feel like maybe “not dying” is enough,_ Mahanon thought, but he kept his trap shut. Saying as much wasn’t going to help anything. Still, out of some ridiculous hope that maybe he was wrong he had to ask, “He tried to change you?”  
  
“Out of desperation,” Dorian explained. “I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl keep everything unsavoury private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me…acceptable. I found out. I left.”  
  
Yup, he was sure glad he had spent that time training with Cassandra before coming up and hearing this. If he hadn’t he was pretty sure he would have hopped right back on one of those horses and hunted down Dorian’s father. Butchered him like the animal he clearly was. For a moment he even toyed with the idea of making _him_ more acceptable, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Mahanon had never wanted to do blood magic before and, if he were honest with himself, he didn’t really want to do it now. But a very, very base part of him wanted to hurt this man who had so clearly wanted to hurt Dorian.  
  
“Can blood magic actually _do_ that?” _Please say no, please say no, please say no.  
  
_ “Maybe. It could have also left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had…I can’t even imagine the person I would be now.” Turning his head so that his grey hues caught on Mahanon’s form he finished, “I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”  
  
He felt fire burning in his veins at the sheer notion of it all, clenching and unclenching his fists. Perhaps some more training was a good idea; gods knew he wanted to hit something bad enough. But those feelings of his weren’t important right then. He may have been raging, but Dorian was hurting. “Are you alright?” he asked.  
  
“No. Not really,” Dorian confessed. It was the most honest answer Mahanon could have hoped for, though he supposed it was a pretty stupid question to a degree – who in the Void would have been alright? From the way Dorian sounded though, it seemed enough that Mahanon had even thought to ask. “Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected, but…it’s something. Maker knows what you think of me now, after that whole display.”  
  
Wait, he thought that Mahanon would somehow think less of him? Because of what? Because he refused to play pretend back home? Because he ran away from his father after he conspired to do blood magic on Dorian and force him to change his sexuality? He shook his head at the very thought. “I don’t think less of you. More, if possible.”  
  
By the gods how could he ever think less of a man who had all that happen, at the hands of his own family no less, and still hope to one day forgive? Who still hoped to one day find an understandable reason? Who still sought to understand at all? Mahanon hadn’t wanted to understand, didn’t care to. Mahanon had just wanted to burn the other mage alive.  
  
It was enough to bring a smile and a bit of light back to Dorian’s face though, and that alone was enough to quench some of the burning rage he had been feeling. “The things you say,” the other mage practically sighed, relief and something else that Mahanon was too afraid to put a name to washing over his features. Was it possible that Mahanon hadn’t been imagining everything? That Dorian actually had some semblance of feelings for him too?  
  
“I mean it,” he reassured.  
  
“My father never understood. Living a lie...it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”  
  
Right now Mahanon was just fighting to keep his heart from hammering right out of his chest. Something in the way Dorian was looking at him, the heat in the other man’s gaze, made his heart beat wildly and warmth seep into his cheeks. There was a tension that filled the air as their eyes stayed locked together, one not too unlike what he had felt that one night when Dorian was drunk. Except this time he didn’t have drink to explain it away, couldn’t brush it all aside with a sweeping statement of “he’s just drunk.” This time he had to accept it for what it was and accept the fact that to some degree, Dorian returned what he felt. “I agree,” he practically whispered.  
  
Everyone else in the world may as well have not existed. The fact that they were in a largely quiet library that was most certainly occupied by others besides themselves forgotten. This time Dorian didn’t have to pull him closer, Mahanon seemed to take a step towards the other man without thinking.  
  
It was enough. Dorian moved towards the other man in such a way that a part of his mind thought to when his clan had helped heal a Halla from an injury and then let it go. The way that Halla had run towards the forest, run back home didn’t seem all too dissimilar from how Dorian closed the gap between them and captured his face in between his hands, seizing his lips like a starved man.  
  
Mahanon in kind reached up to cup the back of Dorian’s head, his fingers grasping on to the other man’s hair as his other hand grasped on to his clothes, pulling him closer. For a moment, they allowed themselves to be lost in each other, each gripping on to the other like they were the only link to everything else. After a moment though, Dorian pulled away, swollen lips giving Mahanon a playful smirk and his eyes lit up with an emotion Mahanon didn’t want to think too much on. “I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor.”  
  
“It was the fire staff that gave it away, wasn’t it?”  
  
That got Dorian to laugh, and the sound was like balm to Mahanon’s otherwise frayed nerves. He could only hope that Dorian felt some measure of relief as well; Mahanon checking his rage had nothing on whatever Dorian must have been going through. “At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day.”  
  
Really it had more been like that sort of week, but he wasn’t about to go correcting the man.  
  
“Join me sometimes, if you’ve a mind.”  
  
Oh right about now Mahanon had a mind for a whole lot of things. Not the least of which was throwing himself into a pile of snow, in lieu of any available cold water.


	16. Rumours

  
He should have expected it. Really, he should have known this was coming well before Josephine had summoned him to her little study, but for whatever gods-forsaken reason he had been caught off guard.  
  
“You _must_ know how this looks, Inquisitor!” Josephine said, clearly exasperated with how this conversation had gone thus far.  
  
Groaning at it all while he sat in the chair at the far end of her desk, Mahanon propped his elbows up on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. He should have expected this but he had a funny tendency to forget that all most people saw of him was a Dalish elf, and all they saw of Dorian was the heir of a Tevinter Magister. Dropping his hands down he looked at Josephine with a nasty glare, “Oh trust me, I’m increasingly aware of the fact that all anyone seems to see of me is my ears, my hand, and evidently my abs,” his snapped at her. “I just didn’t think _you_ were one of them.”  
  
Josephine stopped her pacing at that and the stricken expression on her face was enough to shame him. Cussing in his native tongue he quickly averted his eyes to the fire and fisted his hands. “That was unworthy of me. I apologise. It’s just…I mean do I really need to even spell it out?”  
  
The Inquisition and the public opinion had already taken so much from him it felt like and he was just sick of it. He could never return to his clan without endangering them; too many people were after him for one reason or another, and it was too likely that his own clan would come under the scrutiny of some shem’s sword as a result. He had to always have the best face for the public, being everything that people needed when they needed it needing to know _what_ they needed before they did. Never mind all the religious aspects of this stupid fucking… And this stupid thing _hurt_ sometimes. Like right now, pulsating like a tightly bandaged wound.  
  
As he flexed his fingers, trying desperately to get this weird throbbing to just lessen…and in response the fire seemed to pulse. Damn it. Fire had always been the thing he connected to the easiest with his magic; it had been how his clan had first discovered he had the gift of magic. It wasn’t often, but sometimes that tight control he had on his magic seemed to almost…diminish if that was the right word for it. At least since this damned mark had happened and when his emotions ran high.  
  
And right now he was both severely sleep deprived and pissed off. A heady combo when the damned mark acted up, though for as much as it seemed to throb sometimes Solas assured him that it didn’t seem to be spreading.  
  
The look Josephine was giving the fire and his hand didn’t really help matters and with a heavy sigh he lowered his head, lacing his hands behind his head as it rested between his knees. He needed to get a hold on himself. This was clearly making things worse. Josephine may be one of his advisors but she was still…normal, he guessed was the word. She didn’t have magic and was, ultimately, just a bystander who had stepped up to the plate. People still feared magic.  
  
Once the fire seemed to go back to normal, she focused her attention on him and sat down in the chair opposite him. “I know, Inquisitor, and for what it is worth I am sorry.”  
  
“I’m not giving up another thing,” he declared and the moment he said it he knew it was true. It wasn’t like he and Dorian were head over heels for each other; he certainly was fond of the other man but it wasn’t like they were planning to spend the rest of their lives together or anything. As it turned out though, he didn’t care. He was tired of giving everything up and refused to give another inch. Or, perhaps more to the point, at least this inch. He wasn’t going to change who he did and didn’t get involved with because of public opinion.  
  
“I’m not asking you to,” Josephine assured, and he believed her.  
  
“Then what _are_ you asking?” Mahanon groaned, sitting back up to look over at her. “What, exactly, is the point of this conversation if you aren’t trying to get me to give this up?”  
  
“I am only trying to…forewarn you, I suppose,” she admitted. “He is a Tevinter mage, heir to a Magister no less, and you are a Dalish apostate. Whether we like to remember it or not, his people are known for capturing and enslaving yours.”  
  
“You don’t say?” he practically hissed, every word dripping with thinly laced vitriol. “I had no idea! Next will you call me a Halla rider? Guess those horses in the stables are pretty useless.” Pushing himself up he started his own pacing, lacing his hands behind his head once again as he closed his eyes and forced himself to take several deep breaths. “I am sorry for snapping Josephine, I just…I’m so tired of people only seeing things on the surface. Can’t I just have _one thing_ without having to defend my entire existence? Have I not done enough already? You, yourself, said that you truly believed he has my best interests at heart!”  
  
“And I still think he does,” she assured. “Speaking for myself I think you two would be good together, if it is that much. If it is but a dalliance, however…I feel it is my duty to let you know how the public sees the pairing, in any capacity. The fact that he was already a known companion with you when travelling was frowned upon enough, but now—”  
  
“Yes, yes, I know,” he groaned, leaning his back against the fireplace. They hadn’t exactly kissed in a private place.  
  
“Is it something more?” she ventured after a moment, and her voice was so soft that he could barely hear it.  
  
He thought for a moment before sighing heavily. “Honestly I don’t know,” he admitted. “I am fond of him, that much I know, and I think he may be fond of me as well. But I don’t know what it is yet, if it is anything at all. I’m not going to force a label upon anything though or rush a decision.”  
  
She nodded at that and he could tell by the look on her face that she had lapsed into her usual track of thought. “Very well. I will help as much as I can of course and stave off the worst of the whispers to the best of my ability, but I still feel you should be prepared. At the very least with the trip to Orlais here soon you need to be on your guard.”  
  
“Yes I know, Josephine. We’ve been over Orlesian court tactics and the sort since we started trying to procure the invitation.” Really he found the whole notion of the Game being so complex a bit ridiculous. Between Josephine, Leliana, and the copious amount of studying he had done he felt he had a pretty good handle on it: be coy, don’t give too much information, and when in doubt make a joke. For whatever reason Orlesians seemed to frown on saying something straight.  
  
Moving to take a seat back in the chair he let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding as he leaned back into the cushions. “Thank you, Josephine.” She tilted her head in that way of hers at that. “For telling me. I know that I can be a bit of a…what did you call me?”  
  
“A bull.”  
  
“Yes, that. Anyway I know I’m not really great, sometimes I can be a right ass, but thank you. I know you were telling me because you care.” Better to hear from her in her study than to be blind-sided out on the field. “I will keep what you said in mind. How is your family doing by the way? I haven’t asked in a while.”  
  
That seemed to be enough for her and with her usual soft smile she launched into talking about them. For all that she claimed to be frustrated with them it was clear that they meant the world to her. Ever since they were able to get her family their status back in Orlais though things sounded like they were much better, fortune slowly but surely returning to the family. He admired her for what she did. He had absolutely no idea how she managed to do all she did for him and the Inquisition _and_ look after her family in every aspect, but he sometimes felt that she was more powerful than him for that.  
  
Still, he allowed himself to relax a bit as he watched the fire and listened to Josephine talk of those she loved, subtly playing with the flames in the fireplace as he was wont to do. Really he could listen to her melodic voice for hours. There was more on the horizon he knew but for now anyway he was content.


	17. Catapult

To say that the week leading up to their departure for Orlais was chaotic was an understatement. Every waking moment he had was filled with etiquette practice and dance lessons. Between Josephine and Leliana he felt like every social scandal and rumour was being tossed his way to memorise, every dance that could be practiced done for what felt like hours on end. The dancing was, by far, the hardest part. Ask him to swing a sword or a staff and he was more than proficient, but ask him to swing a dance partner around _while_ making what was considered proper banter? That was much harder.  
  
He had been fighting and practicing one thing or another for as long as he could remember, but the Dalish didn’t really dance like this. It was a lot simpler, and the few humans who deigned to socialise with his clan weren’t exactly the courtly type. These dances were entirely different, requiring a level of control and grace that he just didn’t naturally have.  
  
As it turned out, he much preferred to have an enemy he could swing at.  
  
So every day he practiced with Josephine and Leliana in Josephine’s study. Leliana was probably the best partner he could have hoped for with this however. She had for years been a particularly accomplished bard and player of the Game, and slipping back into that role seemed as natural for her as existing in her own skin. So they would dance and dance and dance the day away and Mahanon was expected to either reply in an appropriate way to their mock conversations, or strike up appropriate conversation. Every time he made a word choice that wasn’t right or used a tone that wasn’t the best suited for the situation, Leliana would reprimand him and tell him what he should have done instead. Every misstep in a dance or beat that he missed was quickly admonished from Josephine and corrected – and then immediately told to start from the beginning.  
  
The fact that they had been practicing these things for so long had helped tremendously. For as much as Mahanon was itching to get out on the training field and hit something, he understood how important this trip to Orlais was and dedicated himself to his teachings. Meriden even helped, playing renditions of Orlesian courtroom music for him at the tavern at night and without fair he would pull people on the dance floor with him and practice those same skills at night.  
  
It was actually far more beneficial than he had thought it would be. Originally he had done it just to practice the steps he, admittedly, still felt eluded him from time to time. The fact that he did so while drinking both was a test for him to keep his bearing, and an easy excuse for when he missed a step in the relaxed setting. But it was also providing him an opportunity to get to know the people who lived here at Skyhold better, and in turn have them get to know him as well. Hawke, as it turned out, had been right. He could tell that within just a couple of nights of doing this the people seemed to be more at ease. Seeing their esteemed leader relax and dance made them want to, made them feel like just maybe it was safe to do so.  
  
He hadn’t thought that his being so tense and diplomatic all the time had made anyone feel that way.  
  
While Sera had expressed to him multiple times that she was _not_ going to be doing any of those prissy dances with him, she would occasionally do one of the simpler dances he was familiar with just to break it up. From time to time he and Dorian would also dance, and he had to admit that those were his favourite. They spoke during those of how it felt to have all eyes on them, joked about what was going on or how Mahanon would miss the steps sometimes.  
  
It felt…good. Unexpectedly so. He had not anticipated that he would wind up enjoying the social complexities of such things, but there he was, enjoying himself.  
  
Maybe he was more than just a warrior-hearted mage with a glowing hand after all.  
  
After much deliberation with Josephine and Leliana on who to bring as the last companion on their trip, he eventually settled on Varric. He was determined to bring one of their more rogue-y companions along as he found them to be invaluable. Between him, Sera, and Cole, it wasn’t exactly like there was much competition, but there had been a good argument for bringing Vivienne along as well as she was intimately familiar with the Game and the members thereof. Plus with Varric having published works he may end up finding some sort of inspiration there, or perhaps even a fan would recognise him.  
  
So Mahanon, dismissed for that day’s lesson, went to go inform the dwarf of the decision. They still weren’t to leave for a couple of days but he wanted to give the other man enough heads up that he could do whatever he needed to. Find the best shirt to show off his chest hair perhaps, since Mahanon was pretty damned sure that the dwarf went out of his way to find those. As was always the way when he went to go speak to Varric however, they wound up drinking near the fire and talking late into the night. It was several drinks in before Varric mentioned how he had actually never officially joined the Inquisition and didn’t really know how to do the whole “disciple hood” thing.  
  
Mahanon groaned and rolled his eyes at that. He didn’t want or need any “disciples” and he _definitely_ didn’t want Varric to think of himself as one. “I’m a person just like any other,” he assured. “There’s no need to treat me any differently.” _In fact, I beg of you not to,_ he silently added.  
  
“Perhaps you’re right, perhaps I’m over thinking this,” Varric said and it was all Mahanon could do not to let out a sigh of relief. “You just don’t know what you are to the people out there. There Herald of Andraste is a symbol bigger than any of us.”  
  
Mahanon looked into his cup and swirled the liquid around for a moment, not all too certain he wanted to ask the question on his mind. Whether from the alcohol or just genuine curiosity though, he asked anyway despite not being sure he wanted to know the answer. “What am I to you, then?”  
  
“None of this shit makes any sense to me.” Well, that made two of them then. Varric’s thoughts weren’t quite what he was hoping he would hear but it at least was better than he feared it might have been. “You heard the crowd singing after Haven was attacked.”  
  
“Please tell me you not going to burst into song now,” Mahanon commented with a snicker.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m not that cruel,” Varric assured with a grin.  
  
“What do you think though?” Mahanon pressed, and for the life of him he wasn’t sure why it was so damned important to know. “Do you believe I’m the Herald?”  
  
Varric paused for a beat then, leaning back in his chair as he seemed to debate how to answer. “Look at all the shit that’s happened to you,” he finally said. “You were saved from the explosion that levelled a mountain top, and fell out of the Fade. You travelled through time. Faced down one of the ancient magisters that started the Blights. Had a mountain fall on you. And _lived_.”  
  
Alright well when it was put like that… Mahanon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, taking a deep swig from his drink. The fact that all of that had happened in the span of just the last year too…  
  
“ _One_ of those things would be impossible. All of them together? That’s a miracle.”  
  
“How did you get such a clear view from all the way down there?” Mahanon quipped with a chuckle.  
  
“It’s from that move that Bull loves to do,” Varric shot back. “You know, the one where he catapults me into the air?”  
  
Mahanon had to laugh at that, but finished his cup of ale and pushed himself up. “Anyway, I had best be off for the evening. Remember that we are to leave for Orlais in a couple of days. Knowing Josephine she might well already have an outfit made for everyone of our merry little band, but we will be there for a bit so best to pack extra.”  
  
“Sounds good, Boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might not know, that last bit about the catapulting is something you can hear with Bull and Sera in the party. He mentions how he really wants to do the maneouver with Sera because Varric is to dense and she promptly to go do some lifts then, because he isn't throwing her in the air. Hope you lot are enjoying it!


	18. The Truth?

It was a good thing Josephine had warned him of the rumours and the whispers that had been going around in regards to him and Dorian, because if he hadn’t already known he would have bloody lost it. For all that people seemed to reduce him so often to just a Dalish elf, they evidently thought the big ears were just for show because they frequently thought he couldn’t hear them. Even when they were only an _arms distance away_.   
  
He needed to apologise to Josephine again evidently for his actions the other day, because she was so right it hurt.   
  
He hoped people wouldn’t be this blatantly gossiping in Orlais, but if her were honest with himself he wasn’t betting on it. The fact that people seemed to have nothing better to do than talk about his love life while he was _busting his ass trying to literally save the world_ was just icing on the cake.  
  
With them leaving in the morning for Orlais though he decided it would be best to cram in one more study session regarding all he was bound to encounter there. Josephine had made it clear that, Inquisitor or no, he was going to have a lot more to prove just because of the fact that he was an elf. Surprise, surprise, the nobility more preferred elves to be seen and slept with than respected. At least he had expected that. Still though, he wanted to do well by the Inquisition and if he could show up a bunch of people while doing so he gladly would.  
  
So really, it shouldn’t have surprised him as he began to crest the stairs to the study and heard a heated argument between Mother Giselle and Dorian.   
  
“I don’t know what you think you are doing!”  
  
“I’m being clucked at by an old hen, evidently,” Dorian shot back.  
  
“Don’t play the fool with me, young man.”  
  
“If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you.”  
  
“Your glib tongue does you no credit.” He was pretty sure they taught that disapproving tone in the Chantry. Every member of the Chantry thus far had perfected it.  
  
“You’d be surprised the credit my tongue gets me, your reverence.” There was that purring tone again and unbidden, thoughts of stolen moments with Dorian flooded his mind. Shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts he walked towards the two. This was going to be a fun conversation.  
  
“Oh, I…”   
  
_Nothing like walking in on a conversation about yourself,_ he thought.  
  
“What’s going on here?” he queried with a raised brow, looking between the two before fixing his gaze on Mother Giselle.  
  
“It seems the revered mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you.”  
  
“It _is_ just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks,” she rushed to explain. Every time he heard that honorific it was a physical effort not to flinch. By the Void, who had even thought of that one?   
  
“You might need to spell it out, my dear.”  
  
She didn’t really, Josephine had gone through great pains to break it down for him exactly how it looked from the outside but she had also told him to never stop someone from explaining their side. At best it offered clarification on a situation and posed as a possible way to frame a solution; at worst it gave you information on their mindset and offered potential ammunition against them at a later time.  
  
“This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumours alone…”  
  
“What’s wrong with him being from Tevinter?” he prodded, more to just further hear what she had to say – and for her to hear it said out loud. He often found that when people had to explain things in great detail, they found their own flaws in their arguments. “Specifically?”  
  
“I’m fully aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same.” _Don’t snort, don’t snort, don’t snort…,_ he thought frantically. Every time he heard that leading line it had meant more “I rationally understand this but emotionally I don’t” than anything else.  
  
“How kind of you to notice,” Dorian commented, and Mahanon was grateful that the other man had taken the mocking tone since Mahanon couldn’t. Mother Giselle was one of the few members of the Chantry who had openly pledged herself to the Inquisition and half the time she was one of the few reasons the Chantry gave them any time of day. It would make Josephine’s job much harder if he were to start mocking the woman himself. “Yet you still bow to the opinion of the masses?”  
  
“The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence,” the Mother pointed out. “What would you have me tell them?”  
  
“The truth?” Dorian offered.  
  
“The truth is I do not know you, and neither do they. Thus these rumours will continue.”  
  
Of course they would. They always would. It seemed people never waited to know much before casting speculation and opinion, certainly they had done it enough on him. The fact that she didn’t know Dorian though was purely on her, and he tried to dismiss it by telling her that there was no cause for concern. When she insisted on how Mahanon didn’t know the effect that Dorian’s presence had on the good opinion of the people though he snapped, “Do the people know how he’s helped the Inquisition?”  
  
That seemed to mollify her pretty fast. “I…see,” she finally said after a moment. To her credit she did offer an explanation and an apology before leaving, but it still was enough to set Mahanon on edge a bit.  
  
Something Dorian seemed to share in the feeling of. “Well, _that’s_ something.”  
  
“This sort of thing happens often, does it?” Mahanon asked.   
  
“More than anyone tells you.” On the list of not comforting thoughts… It was a bit of a double-edged sword in a way. On one hand things that were directly affecting his closest friends and companions was happening right under his nose and he was kept in the dark about it. On the other though, they were probably kept from him because they were easily sorted through and they didn’t want to further burden the man already charged with saving the world. He still didn’t like being kept in the dark, but he at least understood the why of it. “No one knows their own reputation,” he pointed out.  
  
“Until someone helpfully informs them.”  
  
“There is that. She meant well, if that is of any concern.” And there he went, looking out for others when he was under no obligation to do so. “It does make me wonder. _Is_ my influence over you…undue?”  
  
“Not undue at all, no,” he said simply.  
  
“Overdue then?” Mahanon had to crack a smile at that. Certainly the two had been dancing about one another for long enough. Before he could say anything though Dorian continued, “I tease you too much, I know.”  
  
“Oh, I probably deserve it,” he commented with a smirk.  
  
“I’ll have to find something for us to do that doesn’t involve teasing,” he purred and that familiar heat creeped up at that. “Soon, ideally.”  
  
Mahanon had to clear his throat at that, shifting in place a bit as the other man walked away with a coy glance thrown over his shoulder as he tried to get his bearing back. Perhaps he would be better off to study in his room…alone. With the heat in Dorian’s gaze, he wasn’t all too certain that he would get much done with the other man around.


	19. The Dance

The trip to the Winter Palace went about how he should have expected it. Of course, they knew that there was an assassin hiding in the shadows waiting to strike and that Grand Duke Gaspard and Briala had their own schemes, but as it turned out so did Empress Celene. All of his lessons with Josephine and Leliana paid off royally – pun absolutely intended. In between his boughts of snooping all over the palace he had been able to form several different alliances, absolutely charm the court, get plenty of dirt for Leliana to leverage later, and pleasantly surprise Josephine by his mastery on the dance floor.  
  
Honestly, he was just happy it was a simple dance. Had it been any more complicated he had been liable to step on the Duchess’ feet.  
  
Against all odds though, he had been able to get the three adversaries to work together. Alright perhaps not against all odds – when you sheltered the three people who could damn them all the odds were in your favour. Still though they could have rallied against him; just as easily however he could have told them that they all now ruled under his thumb. As it stood, neither happened. He was already the leader of the Inquisition, he did _not_ need a gods-damned country to watch over as well. Moreover, he simply wasn’t fool enough to think for a moment he knew what was best for a nation he had never lived in. They, however, had spent all their lives in Orlais and despite all of their machinations they had done it all in the name of bettering Orlais.  
  
With Florianne exposed publicly now and further loss of life avoided, he finally allowed himself to breathe. He was sure that some of Corypheus’ agents had managed to escape and were very possibly informing Corypheus of what had occurred but he couldn’t bring himself to care. For now, all that mattered was to drink the champagne and enjoy himself a bit. Before tonight he had thought the Orlesians to be a frivolous lot that cared nothing more than whatever lay on the surface and though that definitely did exist, he kind of understood it a bit more. Celene’s ladies had explained it very well he thought: they simply never wanted to forget the bitter sweet nature of life.  
  
So he drank the champagne and danced. The one dance he had shared with Dorian on the balcony hasn’t been enough and so, much to the other mage’s surprise, Mahanon extended a hand to him once they were back in the ballroom with a relaxed and wry grin. Emboldened by the extra two glasses he had downed he asked, “Care for a dance?”  
  
He could tell that Dorian was worried about appearances as he looked quickly around the room even as he replied, “Dancing with the evil Magister, Inquisitor? Whatever will people think?” It was a light hearted enough comment and one he could have played off as the two of them just being friends, or the request itself being a joke. But frankly he was tired of playing everything off just then and he had made enough jokes that evening when charming the pants off of everyone else.  
  
So in response Mahanon took the other man’s hand and pulled Dorian towards him, dragging him out on the lit dance floor and wrapping an arm around Dorian’s waist as they pressed close for the slow dance. “Want to know a secret?” Mahanon said with a smirk once they had picked up the steps of the dance.  
  
“A secret? Hopefully a naughty one,” Dorian cajoled, and though by all appearances the Tevinter mage looked relaxed, Mahanon could feel how tightly wound the man’s muscles were. _He’s tense,_ he thought and had to blink at the realisation. Shifting his eyes to find Dorian’s furtively looking about the ballroom. _Worried._ But not for himself, Mahanon knew. The man was worried for Mahanon.  
  
How did no one see this in the other man? This selflessness? How had _he_ not seen it more? Dorian was a master at playing the Game, it occurred belatedly to him. It shouldn’t have surprised him – Dorian had made several comments over the course of the evening on how similar this ball was to what he had frequently gone to in Tevinter.  
  
For whatever reason he couldn’t help but grin at that as he pulled the other mage closer, their hands locked as Mahanon leaned to whisper in Dorian’s ear, “Fuck what they think.”  
  
He could _feel_ the air leave Dorian’s body as the man gave a breathless laugh, _feel_ the muscles relax a bit under the fabric. “Careful now, Inquisitor. People might get the impression that you and I are…intimate.”  
  
“That’s not the worst assumption they could have, is it?” Mahanon said with a bit of a laugh.  
  
“I don’t know. Is it?” Dorian shot back.  
  
This, at least, was a different game than what they had been playing all night and for that at least Mahanon was intensely grateful. This felt like just how they were when they were joking in the library, and it was easy to forget the rest of the world when they did. Easy to let all the worries and nightmares of the world slide from his shoulders. “Do you always answer a question with a question?” Mahanon said with a laugh.  
  
“Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?”  
  
Perhaps it was the champagne that lent him the boldness, or perhaps he was just well and truly done caring what the rest of the world thought of him for the night. He had helped bring peace to an entire nation and stopped the assassin who had thrust Orlais into the chaos he had seen in that twisted future, the chaos that had weakened it enough to succumb to the evil the darkspawn-Magister hoped to unleash on the world. He had done enough. So he grasped the other man’s waist and pulled him flush against Mahanon’s own body as he shifted to meet the other man’s gaze in a level, heated look. “If you’re capable,” he teased.  
  
It was more than that though and they both knew it. Mahanon was telling Dorian that he wasn’t afraid of what the onlookers thought. Dorian had been looking about all evening, so careful not to do anything or say anything that could give cause for rumours to fly. The rumours they both knew already circulated Skyhold like fire, the rumours that Mother Giselle assured them both were tarnishing the good name that they had worked so hard to give the Inquisition.  
  
But Mahanon wouldn’t take away the decision from Dorian on whether or not they went about as public as public could be. The dance was enough to spready the rumours like wildfire and Mahanon had no problem with that; as Dorian had so astutely pointed out several times now, Mahanon liked playing with fire. Thing was that this was a two-way street and for as much as Mahanon’s specialisation was swords and fire, Dorian’s was ice and the dead. So while he wanted to make it clear to Dorian where he stood, he wouldn’t make the next decision for Dorian.  
  
Dorian had asked him to dance before on the balcony and he knew that the other mage had left it there to protect the reputation of the famous Inquisitor. For all his jokes and cavalier approach to life, he cared deeply and what Mother Giselle had said had impacted him greatly. Mahanon didn’t want Dorian to think that he was hiding him for even one moment, that the elven mage was worried for one moment what other people would make of the pairing. So he had pulled him for another dance. But this next step he would leave entirely up to Dorian, even as the two watched each other intently as the last notes of the song’s crescendo filled the air.  
  
So when the song ended and their movements stilled, Mahanon’s heart grew lighter as Dorian gripped him by the back of his head and kissed him on the dance floor. The gasps of several courtiers didn’t escape his notice, nor did the sound of fans unfurling and fluttering. He could hear people whisper but didn’t care to listen to the words as he kissed back.  
  
When the kiss finally broke off the two shared a smile, and despite everything around them and the darkness that tried to engulf the world, there was a light in their eyes and affection on their expressions. And it was enough.


	20. Buttons

Josephine was so insanely smart, Mahanon sometimes felt stupid next to her. _He_ had thought for sure they would attend the ball, stop the attack, and leave early so that they could be back on the road in the morning. Josephine however had insisted upon booking the entire troupe rooms for the next several days in Orlais proper.  
  
Given the raging hang over Mahanon was currently experiencing, he could do naught but admit that Josephine was a lot smarter than him. He remembered rather little of what had happened after his dance with Dorian on the dancefloor, but he did remember that he had discovered that he loved champagne. Now, however, just the thought of it was enough to make his stomach roll.  
  
 _I think I’m going to—_ Lunging from the bed he grasped for a rubbish bin close to him and proceeded to hurl his guts into it. Several times, as a matter of fact, until he was certain there was nothing left inside of him to purge. Once that had passed, he leaned back with a loud groan. He hated throwing up, it was just so gross. Probably a bit of an odd sentiment it occurred to him. Routinely he was covered in blood and gore, but vomit was where he drew the line on grossness.  
  
Pushing the bin away from him he pushed himself up and looked about the room. He had remembered that he and Dorian had been sharing some rather impassioned kisses once back to the hotel, been grasping at each other rather desperately, but it would seem that he had in fact spent the night alone. The fact that he was nude despite this didn’t really surprise him…but the fact that he was nude and still wearing _boots_ … Kicking those off he headed into the bathroom, rubbing his throbbing head.  
  
He made quick work of scrubbing his body down with soap and water and drank a good few handfuls of water to quench his parched throat before drying himself off with a towel. Wrapping it around his waist once he was dried off well enough, he went to work brushing his teeth. Shaking out his hair to make it dry faster he found a small bottle of smelling oils Josephine had procured from him before the trip and sniffed at it. She had called it cologne and swore it was all the rage in Orlais, simply every man of any standing wore it and the women often donned a different version called perfume.  
  
If he were honest he didn’t get the appeal, but when in Orlais… Shrugging his shoulders he dabbed it on the points Josephine had insisted it was to be worn and went about dressing himself. He had only brought the one pair of black leather boots he had worn last night so he just put those back on along with a black pair of trousers and a white linen shirt. He furrowed his brows at it though before putting it on. Wasn’t this the shirt that Josephine had taken at one point? Something about making alterations. He remembered it fitting perfectly fine before, but with a shrug of his shoulders and figuring it was just Josephine being Josephine he slid it on.  
  
Only as he was leaving the suite did he notice in the mirror what Josephine had meant. It was a simple shirt, just white linen with laces at the top to make it easier for him to slide his head in. Or it _had_ been a simple shirt. It was still basic white linen but now the laces were gone and replaced with buttons and there was a swirling leaf embroidery at the collar. All of it gold.  
  
It didn’t look bad at all but he seriously didn’t understand why Josephine had done as much. Perhaps it had something to do with appearances – Josephine did seem to do a lot to ensure that even the smallest of details appeared correctly – but the buttons specifically threw him off. He had always been terrible with the damned things. Dalish clothing didn’t have buttons, instead they favoured laces. Buttons were hard to fashion and to replace one you can to craft a whole new one and make it of the correct size for the hole. Laces…well if those broke you could just find a good piece of witherstalk or blood lotus reed and whack the daylights out of it until it was pliable enough to make due, or cut off a strip of cloth or leather from something.  
  
There was no way he was going to bother with those damned things. For as much as he didn’t like the fact that all three of the things were undone and a bit of his chest was exposed, he was absolutely not going to fuss with the damned things for an hour to hide away a finger’s span of skin. Rolling his eyes he shoved the long ends of the shirt into his pants before opening the door and making his way down to the lobby. He seemed to recall something about being able to order food down there and now that his stomach was well and truly empty and the taste of vomit was gone, he was famished. Thank the gods that the place had maids to clean out the room – he didn’t want to go back and have to deal with his own vomit while he felt this horrid.  
  
If the light didn’t hurt so bad that it made him wince, he probably would have thought that the white marble with opulent gold accents was stunning in the morning rays. Bragging to the fact that this particular hotel regularly hosted visiting nobles and dignitaries, the cushioned couches and chairs all boasted blue velvet in a shade that was decidedly similar to that which Celene had worn the night before. Vibrant greens gave the area life from well-tended plants, some even sporting blooms.  
  
Sitting at one of the tables, laughing and sipping something that smelled absolutely divine was his entourage. Dorian sat with his back to the Inquisitor but as he neared he could tell that everyone had apparently had Josephine influence their clothing options.  
  
Varric was the least touched of all of them and it didn’t surprise Mahanon over much. The dwarf had a taste for the opulent anyway so it really just looked like his normal clothes but newer and without any of the rough patches or scratches his usual garb had developed. Josephine, too, wore something similar to her usual wear though it was more a vibrant violet colour and made of velvet. Leliana and Cullen weren’t present but that didn’t surprise him; knowing Leliana she was already leveraging the information he had found last night and Cullen was probably still hiding in an attempt to make the numerous proposals he had received disappear.  
  
Surprise, surprise, Cassandra was in a similar garment to what he was wearing though her top was a stunning burgundy that was honestly quite flattering to her skin tone and the cut did quite a bit to show off the figure she so often hid under armour plates. The only thing he was sure she had decided on in regards to her clothing was the embroidered gold symbol of the Inquisition on either side of her collar.  
  
As he neared them their gazes shifted over to him and, resting a hand against the back of Dorian’s chair, he finally looked down to the other mage. With his usual smirk and silent laughter lighting up his eyes, he drawled, “Well look who has finally rolled out of bed.”  
  
It was evident that Dorian was, in fact, the one person Josephine hadn’t felt a need to dress. Ina clear Tevinter fashion with the folds and swoops of fabric, Dorian was dressed in a green and black material and whatever the fabric was it made him think of velvet, though it clearly wasn’t. It was, however, highly textured and made Mahanon think it must have been interesting to touch. Contrary to the rest of the group though he had silver metal and embroidered accents.  
  
“Have a bit of a headache?” Varric said with a laugh before indicating for a nearby server to bring him whatever the hell a latte was. Must be another Orlesian thing…whatever just so long as it tasted as good as those small cakes from the ball. “Taking a page from my book now?” Varric commented with that usual grin of his, gesturing towards the small span of exposed chest. “Plagiarist.”  
  
Moving to sit in the chair between Dorian and Josephine he groaned at the dwarf. “Definitely not.”  
  
“Decided the press of Orlais didn’t have enough to comment on you?” Dorian ventured with a grin.  
  
“No,” he said with a shake of his head, taking the proffered latte as it arrived with a thanks towards the serving girl. He had to furrow his brows at her though as her cheeks went bright red and she stammered as she left quickly. Odd. With a shrug though he took a sip from the cup. So _this_ is what he had smelled before. He had to admit, it tasted rather divine as well. “Truth be told, I don’t really know how to work buttons.”  
  
They shut the group up rather quickly and though he loved their banter and unique accents, he was just so grateful that they had _shut the hell up_ while he finished the latte and ordered another. Blessed silence. All it took though was one look at their faces to know that the silence absolutely would _not_ last.  
  
 _Fuck._ Leave it to him to stick his foot that far into his mouth.  
  
“What do you mean you don’t know how to work buttons?” Cassandra said.  
  
“Let me get this straight, the mighty Inquisitor, closer of the Breach, practitioner of several schools of magic _and_ sword, the man who frequently wraps entire nations around his little finger…doesn’t know how to use…buttons?” Dorian’s turn evidently.  
  
“Oh I _have_ to write a book about this,” Varric said with a laugh.  
  
His cheeks were growing increasingly red as they went on. “It—it’s not that I don’t know _how_ …I just…am not very good at them. Last time I attempted them it took me an hour to get one through a hole.”  
  
“That’s called not knowing how to use buttons,” Varric commented, and the entire group couldn’t seem to help but burst out into laughter at the miserable expression that crossed his face. Groaning he leaned forward, propping his elbows up on his kneed as he shook his head at them.  
  
“Ooh,” Dorian purred, his eyes looking at Mahanon with a heat that the elven man was becoming increasingly familiar with. “No wonder the girl was so flustered.”  
  
Furrowing his brows he looked down. While the opening hadn’t looked like too much when he had looked in the mirror, when looking down he could see straight down to the waistband of his trousers. With a streak of Dalish curses he grasped on to the top of his shirt tightly, his cheeks growing hotter and hotter with the realisation. Normally he didn’t care when people saw him half naked, but at least normally he _knew_. Something about having accidentally exposing himself was somehow so much more…embarrassing.  
  
At his obvious misery his entire group started dying laughing and at some point his new latte had been put on the table before them. Pushing himself up from his chair, Dorian closed the small distance between them and shooed away Mahanon’s hand. “Really, what _would_ you do without me?” he said with a chuckle and it took naught but a moment for the other mage to get the garment all securely buttoned up.  
  
“Maker, Inquisitor, why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Josephine finally said once her laughter had died down.  
  
“Quite frankly I don’t really look at my clothes so I hadn’t realised what ‘alterations’ meant before putting it on this morning,” he admitted, leaning back in the chair now that he was all buttoned up and taking the mug from Dorian as the other mage offered it and sat down. “It may surprise you Josephine, but I don’t really look at my clothing. You say to wear whatever so I do.” Unbidden he had the flash of a memory of ripping the clothing from his body last night after a drunken attempt to figure out how to undo the buttons Josephine had secured earlier the prior day. “Actually…don’t be mad, but…I think I may have just ripped off all the buttons from what you had me wear yesterday.”  
  
The sigh Josephine gave told him that she was most certainly peeved at that little detail and he gave her the best “don’t be mad at me” smile that he could muster before hiding his face behind his mug and taking a deep drink from it.  
  
“Well, no one has accused you of being politically astute,” Dorian quipped.  
  
“What does buttons have to do with politics?” Mahanon queried.  
  
“That you have to ask only proves his point,” Josephine said.  
  
This was just not his morning. Rolling his eyes at the lot of them he muttered, “Bugger off, all of you.” It only caused them to laugh at him once more.


	21. Orlesian Days

He honestly didn’t know if he had ever taken the time to enjoy a city before. His clan had visited cities for a day or so to trade every now and then and he had been to Orlais before, but he honestly couldn’t remember any time where he had actually just meandered about and saw what a city had to offer. The sights, the sounds, the food, the entertainers…Skyhold had nothing compared to what Val Royeaux did and for the first time he allowed himself to leisurely explore it. Cullen and Leliana had took off back to Skyhold with a couple of the Inquisition soldiers, claiming that someone had to be there to keep an eye on things but Mahanon was pretty sure the two just didn’t know how to relax.  
  
Not that he could really say much, but he was trying.  
  
Having insisted that the group spend some of the Inquisition coin on themselves – “think of it as a bonus for all you do,” he had said when Josephine looked at him with raised brows – the remaining party split up after Mahanon had sufficient time to sober up with coffee and scones. What he hadn’t told any of them (with the exception of Josephine, if only to keep her blood pressure from going too high) was that the coin they would all be spending was actually Mahanon’s own. With all the travels and items he found of some value on the way he had amassed a good amount of coin, and he was more than adequately supplied with what he needed by the Inquisition and the gifts that occasionally showed up. He had been thinking about how all of them needed to be able to spoil themselves more and while he couldn’t bring everyone to Val Royeaux, he had plans to spoil them a bit too.  
  
Cassandra was probably haunting the armouries and black smithies and Varric was…gods only knew where honestly. Josephine though had made some mention of missing the things that one couldn’t find elsewhere and for whatever reason Mahanon imagined it to be food. So that had really only left Mahanon and Dorian to find their own things to occupy them. Which mostly involved Mahanon gawking and Dorian laughing at the expression while he led them to all sorts of clothing stores.  
  
Sure, he had been to Val Royeaux now a couple of times, but he hadn’t ever really looked at anything. Every time he had kept his head down and barrelled towards whatever it was he was there to do. Sure, he still had a million things on his mind and the second that Skyhold so much as came back in view it would be back to business as usual. For now though he would focus on only what was in front of him and he had to admit that Dorian was a perfect companion for that. The other man was surprisingly insightful and thoughtful but he also was always in the moment. The weight of expectations and worries never showed on his shoulders, and Mahanon couldn’t really tell if it was because that was just the man’s personality or if it was because he was just that good at hiding it after a lifetime of needing to do so.  
  
Mahanon had never had to hide anything about himself growing up. Until this whole Inquisition business he had never had to don any sort of mask to be what others needed. Dorian though had always needed to hide himself. He had joked once when talking about Alexius how he didn’t exactly blend in and it was true. Unless the more extravagant fashion the mage favoured was considered common in Tevinter, and Mahanon somehow doubted it was after seeing his father in comparatively simple robes, everything from the man’s clothing to his sense of humour made him stick out. As Josephine had put it, he could make a scene while standing in an empty room. Throw that together with the fact that Tevinter obviously didn’t take kindly to any sexuality outside of a man and a woman…  
  
Leaning back he propped himself up on the marble of the fountain and watched as Dorian laughed with one of the shopkeepers while pointing out a particularly lavish scrap of fabric. Mahanon, simply, admired the man. While the rest of the world seemed to focus on the elf and think him the pillar of everything from strength and power to influence and grace, he didn’t really see that when he looked at himself. Sure he had power and influence and he knew how to fight, but grace? Half the time he wanted to punch people in the face.  
  
Dorian had grace. It took a person full of grace to want to understand someone still like he had with his father. It took a person full of grace to see both the good and the bad like he did with his homeland. Mahanon didn’t have grace like that. He had a lot of things, but not that.  
  
“Are you quite finished?” Mahanon teased with a smirk as Dorian came to join him by the fountain. The other man had done a fair bit of damage already, though it really only took one outfit to accomplish that thank to his lavish tastes.  
  
“One of us needs to have taste,” Dorian chimed as he took a seat beside Mahanon – though still far away that it was deemed appropriate. The elven man couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps what had happened at the ball was due more to the champagne than anything else. Ever since Dorian had been seemingly taking great pains to ensure everything stayed proper looking between them. But then it could also be a habit from his time in Tevinter, Mahanon reminded himself.  
  
“Hey now, I have taste,” Mahanon retorted with a meaningful glance over at Dorian, his smirk widening a bit. “For some things anyway.”  
  
“Indeed you do,” Dorian agreed in that purring tone of his, meeting Mahanon’s gaze for a moment. “Champagne definitely being one of them.”  
  
With an exaggerated groan Mahanon made to drop down on his back, though he caught himself on his elbows and pushed himself up at the last second. “Don’t remind me. It’s probably a good thing we don’t have any back at Skyhold or I would be drinking as much as you.”  
  
“You say that like it would be a bad thing!”  
  
“Tell you what, I’ll say it like it’s a good thing when you can get Josephine to stop flinching at the idea.”  
  
“Fair point,” Dorian conceded with a laugh. “But still, it’s not _my_ fault you don’t appreciate clothing. Frankly I’m surprised you dress as well as you do.”  
  
Mahanon shrugged at that. “That would be because of Josephine. I’m starting to suspect that she just enjoys having someone who puts on what they’re told.”  
  
“Ah yes, they would explain it,” the Tevinter mage said with a snicker. “My mother certainly would love it. I never did as told.”  
  
“You’ve mentioned her a couple times this trip,” Mahanon observed. “Does Val Royeaux make you think much of home?”  
  
“In ways. The court much more so.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Well certainly the parties are both grand. The clothing too in ways, though in Tevinter we tend to show a bit more skin. The masks are a bit more obvious here though.”  
  
“Oh right, I had forgotten about the masks,” Mahanon mused. No great surprise there, he was pretty sure he had taken it off as soon as they were outside the palace. Josephine had protested at that but he had just given her a deadpan expressed and indicated his face and the fine clothes she had dressed them all in and went, “Do you _really_ think people won’t know who I am?” The only two elves that weren’t servants had been him and Briala and he was pretty sure people weren’t about to mistake them. Call him an optimist.  
  
“How did you forget about the _masks_?” Dorian asked, an incredulous painted on his face. “You really did have too much champagne. Don’t even remember things.”  
  
Mahanon’s eyes darted to meet Dorian’s at that, his gaze locking and holding with enough intensity that it sent a thrill through Dorian, making the other man dig his finger-tips into the stone of the fountain. “I remember plenty,” Mahanon said, his tone shifting to something that made it sound almost like a command. A by-product of being Inquisitor, perhaps. “And I regret nothing.”  
  
A beat passed between them where their gazes stayed locked in silence, then two. Eventually enough time passed that Mahanon cracked a smile and waved the other man away, shifting to lace his fingers behind his head as he laid down on the fountain’s ledge and closed his eyes. “Go on, keep shopping. I’ll stay here and protect the bags. I doubt anyone will try to steal from the dread Inquisitor anyway.”  
  
“Watch you twist an entire nation around your pinkie _and_ spend your money all in one weekend? You _are_ trying to seduce me,” Dorian said in that purring tone.  
  
Jerking up to a sitting position Mahanon looked at Dorian, who was already standing up with that wry smirk of his. “How did you—?” he started, eyes wide and mouth agape. But he was never able to finish, instead watching as Dorian practically scampered off with a laugh.


	22. The Amulet

Leliana really couldn’t go two minutes without sticking her nose in people’s business. Granted that was why she was their spymaster, along with a myriad of other reasons, but still sometimes it made him roll his eyes. In a lot of ways she was like the stereotypical woman but with all those traits exaggerated. He had seen her with a bow and definitely didn’t want to mess with her, she was drop dead gorgeous, and so gods damned nosey that no one was safe. So he shouldn’t have been surprised when early in the morning of their last day in Val Royeaux one of her messengers knocked on his door and handed him a letter about Dorian having been seen inquiring about an amulet.  
  
It seemed innocent enough really: Dorian was just after some amulet. Clearly there had to be more to it than that as Dorian wasn’t really the type to get in a heated argument with someone, let alone a public one. Either was though it was their last day in the city for a while and since it seemed like if they didn’t just on this soon the chance would disappear.  
  
Knocking on the door to Dorian’s suite before pushing open the already ajar door, Mahanon leaned against the frame with a grin on his face and his arms crossed in much the same outfit as he wore the day before. In fact, the only real way to tell it was a different outfit was that this time the shirt was a deep blue. “Come on Dorian, it’s my turn to drag you all over the shopping plaza,” he called.  
  
Had the other mage paid much attention he would have seen the mischief alight in Mahanon’s eyes, but instead those familiar grey hues caught on Mahanon’s shirt. “You really must learn how to button these shirts up yourself, unless you intend to scandalise all of the maids in the place,” Dorian chided, though it was evident by his tone that it was far from sincere.  
  
Indeed, the shirt today was almost the same type as the one from the day before, but Mahanon had torn this one quite wide open one day when training. That Josephine had taken it for alterations hadn’t surprised him in the least and he had to admit that it looked much cleaner now with the torn edges now being cleaned up by needlework. As a result though, this shirt had a good couple more buttons than the last and so with him not having buttoned it everything down to his sternum was exposed. Something Dorian now seemed intent upon covering, though it was clear the other man was enjoying the view. “Now why would I go doing that with you around?”  
  
That got a chuckle out of Dorian. “I’m surprised you want to go shopping with me again,” he admitted. “Please tell me we’re not armour shopping. Cassandra would enjoy that much more than I would, you know.”  
  
This time it was Mahanon’s turn to laugh a bit but he shook his head no. “It’s a surprise,” was all he said. Dorian met his eyes and raised a brow at that. “Just come on. You didn’t hear me complain yesterday.”  
  
“Oh no, nothing quite so outspoken,” Dorian said, and by the way he drawled on his words Mahanon knew that something else was coming. “Just a lot of grunts and groans and silent eye-rolls.”  
  
“But no complaints,” Mahanon reiterated, a triumphant grin on his face as Dorian turned to close and lock the door behind him. For the first time Mahanon took note of what Dorian was wearing; something made of what looked like black velvet and silver silk. It was opulent, really, and even though Mahanon was never quite attentive to clothing choices he felt like it must have been new.  
  
It didn’t take much time after that for them to go with a latte and a scone in each of their bellies. Mahanon had already told Josephine that he wanted those at Skyhold for sure. He found that the lattes gave him more of a pep, even when he wasn’t hungover, and if there was anything he was always in desperate need of it was having more pep. A point Josephine didn’t argue with as she said that she would see to it.   
  
From what Leliana had detailed in her note, the location of this merchant wasn’t much of a mystery to him. It would seem that the location, or at the very least the look, of the Inquisitor wasn’t much of a mystery to this Ponchard either. “Inquisitor! Good, good, this is exactly what I was hoping for!”  
  
On second thought, perhaps it wasn’t too surprising that the man knew what he looked like. After all, how many elves wandered the streets of this city in clothing as fine as any noble’s? Perhaps that was why Josephine was so insistent upon being in charge of his wardrobe.  
  
“What? Is _that_ why we’re here?” Dorian sputtered as they came to a stop. Evidently it wouldn’t be that much of a surprise if Dorian was able to recognise the man instantly even despite the mask he wore. Mahanon really would never understand that particular fashion. “How do you even know about the amulet? I hope you aren’t intending to help me get it back. I can do this myself.”  
  
Well that pricked his pride a bit. Mahanon knew that the man was more than capable of looking after himself, but too often Mahanon didn’t get to pick who he helped. Instead his hand felt forced one way or another. Be if for some power or influence for the Inquisition, or just for appearances sake, he didn’t often get to help people just because he wanted to.  
  
“I apologise, but that won’t be possible.” Both their eyes turned to Ponchard at that point. “Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your…association with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist.”  
  
Of course he couldn’t. Mahanon clenched his jaw at that. Truly, he should have expected as much. That he hadn’t was really just on him.  
  
“You see,” Ponchard continued. “The young man sold me a rather valuable amulet. Many months ago. Then he returned, asking to buy it back. Why would I simply sell it? Not only is it useful, there are others who could…offer much more.”  
  
Like a concussion. Mahanon would _happily_ offer a concussion.  
  
“You loathsome little cretin!” Dorian practically hissed. “That’s why you were so stubborn!”  
  
“There is no need for insults, monsieur. I am interested in only doing good business.”  
  
Business with Mahanon’s boot, more like it. But he had to remember to keep his composure. Like it or not they were in a public setting and the Inquisition, while steadily moving up in the world, had an image to maintain. “Aren’t you a merchant? Why not just sell it back?” he queried.  
  
“I am not a fence, monsieur,” Ponchard declared. “I only bought your friend’s amulet because of what it is. I do business in the Imperium. Having a birth right, even one not your own, is most useful in…select situations.”  
  
He meant brothels didn’t he? He probably meant brothels.  
  
“Hmph. He’s got the right of it there,” Dorian admitted.  
  
“That’s why I gave the young man so much,” Ponchard explained. “If he relinquished it, how is that my doing?”  
  
“You want something from me.” That much was obvious to Mahanon. The man had clearly hedged his bets and this time, he seemed to have hedged correctly. Though Mahanon wasn’t above applying a bit of pressure himself. “What would you like?”  
  
“The League de Celestine is an organisation of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage.” Oh it was so hard not to say “if you lack the lineage, how is that my doing?” Josephine would have been so proud. “If someone like you applied pressure,” Ponchard went on. “They would admit me. _That_ would be worth the return of the amulet.”  
  
It occurred to him to ask Dorian his opinions on the matter and perhaps it was selfish that he didn’t inquire upon them, but at the end of the day this Ponchard fellow was making it increasingly obvious that it didn’t matter what Dorian had to say. He had no real moral or ethical standing to cling to; he was in every way just another Orlesian trying to claw his way up in the world. Far be it for him, a Dalish elf who now led a small army, to frown upon the man for trying but the way this man was doing it was wrong. Say what you want about Mahanon, but he fought and clawed his way to where he was now. He didn’t make other people do his dirty work.  
  
“Perhaps you haven’t heard the news from the Winter Palace or the part I played there,” Mahanon said, taking a menacing step towards the man. Even to his ears his tone was almost more growl than anything.  
  
“Well, yes, but—”  
  
“I didn’t realise an Orlesian merchant could be so blasé about offending the Imperial Throne of Orlais.”  
  
“Forgive me Your Worship—” Well if he hadn’t been in a foul mood before, he was quickly getting in one. That damned honorific! “—If it is your desire, I will have the amulet delivered to Skyhold immediately. Please just think of me kindly. I meant no offense.”  
  
Mahanon had actually been prepared to purchase the amulet back, had brought a heavy pouch full of coin just to do so. A part of him almost pitied the man for that because had he not over reached and tried to manipulate him, Mahanon would not have thought twice about rewarding him handsomely. As it stood though he refused to reward a coward – and this man was a coward, if nothing else.  
  
“Hmph.” Mahanon’s gaze flicked to Dorian at he noise. “I’d feel badly for the fellow if he wasn’t a toad.”  
  
“You sure you can’t read minds, Dorian?” Mahanon teased as they turned and walked away.  
  
“Like I’m going to tell you,” he replied with a laugh.


	23. Not Mine

As expected, the minute he stepped foot back in Skyhold everything happened at once. Some Mother or another had arrived to demand for Leliana and Cassandra to return with her at once, as though the two women didn’t already have enough on their plates without the damned Chantry knocking on the door. Scouts had returned with news of the Wardens in a place called the Western Approach and a scout troupe, including Scout Harding, had been dispatches to survey the area and try to get any further information. And Iron Bull had received intel that his people wanted to talk alliance with Mahanon’s people. For all of Mahanon’s studying he had never once heard the terms “Qunari” and “alliance” in the same sentence, let alone from a reputable source. It wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say that it would make history.  
  
For all that they had just barely arrived back from the city, plans were immediately made to depart the very next morning for the Storm Coast. Even while still in the stables, assisting Master Dennet with the care of the horses they had used during their trip, Mahanon sent out missives to Iron Bull, Sera, and Blackwall to be ready to move the next morning. Perhaps not the best people to take on such a trip, but he figured he would just have Sera and Blackwall hang back during any meetings and instruct them to stay silent. He wasn’t fool enough to think that any alliance the Qunari had to offer would be permanent so he wasn’t too concerned about long term impressions, but until he had more information he wanted to play it safe.  
  
As though that weren’t enough, news had reached Skyhold from Wycome of a group of nobles who seem to have suddenly taken a liking to the notion of hunting down the Clan Lavellan in the name of _sport_. It wasn’t the first time he had heard of such a thing being directed to a clan, but it was the first time he had heard of such a threat being directed towards his clan and the thought of it set his heart to racing. It was all he could do to remind himself that for as much as he may wish to do so, he could not simply fly off to help them.  
  
His first instinct was to gather the soldiers that followed him and give the surely mad noblemen a taste of their own medicine, but moving such a large number of troops would take considerable time and time was most certainly not on their side. Never mind the fact that sending Inquisition forces to slaughter nobles would do them no favours and at this point they needed every favour they could scrape together… Leliana’s suggestion to have her people sneak his clan into the city to even the playing field did nothing to quiet his thoughts and feelings, but it was at least something. Some small way that he could help them have a fair chance to hunt back without being too obvious about where the help had come from.  
  
It wasn’t enough to calm him though. His people, his family, were under attack far north of where he was and until he got word that they were safe he couldn’t rest. Sleep eluded him that night. He had tried helping in the kitchen for a bit but between his intense expression and his utter lack of ability to cut things into the same size, he was quickly run out of the kitchen by the head cook in charge of breakfast. He may be Inquisitor but Cook was Cook and no one messed with the one charged to feed everyone.  
  
  
Eventually he found his way to the infirmary and though he wasn’t of much help as no one was in immediate need, he found he was content enough to just sit in the chair against the wall and watch them. He couldn’t do anything to help his clan, couldn’t do any more than he had already done so that he wouldn’t lose them, but he could at least be sure to save all of his people here. That would have to be enough for him.  
  
Morning came faster than he felt like it should and though he didn’t quite feel ready to remove himself from his perch, he did anyway. As the sun was cresting over the horizon he made his way to the front gate to meet the others. He tried to jest with the others as they headed towards the Storm Coast but his mind was elsewhere and within time he ended up just silently following along. The closer they got to the coast the stronger the desire was to swim across the body of water to where his clan was, and it was a physical effort to restrain himself.  
  
“Alright, our Qunari contact should be here to meet us,” Iron Bull said. Mahanon blinked at hearing it, the trip having gone by in a bit of a blur for him.  
  
“He is,” a voice said and a moment later a tanned elf emerged from the foliage.  
  
“Gatt!” Iron Bull exclaimed, holding his hands up high in greeting. “Last I heard, you were still in Seheron!”  
  
The man, Gatt, grinned at that. “They finally decided I’d calmed down enough to go back into the world.”  
  
Introductions were passed around and Mahanon took the opportunity to get a bit more information, but ultimately it seemed pretty straight forward despite all the politics trying to seemingly make it complicated. For the moment the Inquisition and the Qunari had a common enemy: the Venatori. They wanted to join forces to squash the group and as they couldn’t exactly march into Fereldan or Orlais like the Inquisition could, they wanted to form an alliance. Still, it would be a powerful union, even if it was short lived.  
  
Something about the way Gatt addressed Iron Bull though gave him a bad feeling. While Iron Bull seemed to greet the other man as friendly as one might please, Gat seemed a bit more reserved and tense. Especially when explaining the title that the Qunari man went by. The way he said “liar” and looked at Iron Bull…it almost seemed like the other elf was ready to spit. Mahanon immediately didn’t like the other elf, though for exactly what reason he couldn’t be sure. He just seemed so…angry. For as much as Mahanon understood anger, something about Gatt’s anger put him on edge.  
  
When he told Bull that he was ready, the following events seemed to go by both horribly slowly and all too fast. He remembered Bull telling his men that drinks were on him after this. It was a bloodbath because of course it had to be, but he at least took some solace in the fact that it wasn’t his people dead on the forest floor. To see the Chargers up on the other hill with the flare shot off also made him sigh in relief; they may not have been Inquisition soldiers, but he felt like they were just as much his people as anyone else under the Inquisition.  
  
From what he could see of the ships on the water, they were magnificent. Magnificent from a distance as he had absolutely no desire to ever board one of those blasted things, but magnificent all the same.  
  
“Crap,” Iron Bull said and Mahanon’s gaze instantly followed the other man’s. The sight of Venatori soldiers making their way to the chargers sent a chill down his spine. The taste of fear filled his mouth, amplified by the last day of struggling to keep it at bay.  
  
“They’ve still got time to fall back if you signal them now!” he said, turning to Bull with his eyes burning. It felt like a demand thrumming in his veins, repeated with every heartbeat: _not mine, not mine, not mine…_  
  
“Yeah…” Bull sounded absolutely miserable, though Mahanon couldn’t hear much through the haze of emotion he was now feeling.  
  
“Your men need to hold that position, Bull,” Gatt said and Mahanon suddenly realised why he didn’t like the man. He was utterly irreverent. At the very least where life was concerned. He cared more about the mission that the lives of those who fought for it, and while there was a time and place where such a mentality needed to be had this was not it.  
  
“They do that, they’re dead,” Iron Bull pointed out and though Mahanon couldn’t quite grasp what emotion he was hearing from the Qunari he recognised that the words were in some small part a veiled threat.  
  
“And if they don’t, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnaught is dead. You’d be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari! You’d be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth!”  
  
He had been ready to rip Gatt’s throat out at the mention of throwing away an alliance, feeling as though the simple sentence implied that losing the Chargers was somehow akin to throwing away rubbish. The mention of Iron Bull becoming Tal-Vashoth, however, stayed his hand. If he were honest he had forgotten about that little crux to this whole thing. One look at Bull’s face told Mahanon know that he was already aware of this – and yet he had still issued that underlying threat at the thought of losing his people.  
  
“With all you’ve given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you’ve betrayed us already! I stood up for you, Hissrad! I told them you would _never_ become Tal-Vashoth!”  
  
“They’re my men.” It was all Mahanon needed to hear for the thrumming to come back to his veins. _Not mine, not mine, not mine…_  
  
“I know. But you need to do what’s right, Hissrad…for this alliance and the Qun.”  
  
The second Iron Bull turned to look at him it was all he could do to not shout “fuck the damned alliance.” The Qunari may fight for a way of life outlined in their sacred text, but he fought for his _people_ and he lost enough of them to not want to offer them up on a gods damned platter. “Call the retreat!”  
  
“Don’t!”  
  
Mahanon was two seconds away from launching himself at the other man when Bull blew the horn and the sound was just loud and terrible enough that it stopped him in his tracks. It didn’t stop him from casting the other elf a death glare, his jaw clenched and fire at the ready in his hands. As the sound of the horn faded, the only sound that filled the air was the rain pattering down on them and the soft sizzle as the drops evaporated as they fell on his flaming hands.  
  
“They’re falling back,” Bull said, and even in Mahanon’s emotion-addled brain he could hear the sigh of relief.  
  
“All these years, Hissrad, you would throw away all that you are for what? For this? For _them_?”  
  
Mahanon lunched forward with a growl at that, his lips curling up to bare his teeth. For all that he wanted to say to the other elf, for all he wanted to spit obscenities and remind the man that it had been _them_ who had approached _him_ for an alliance, all he ended up saying was, “His name is Iron _fucking_ Bull!”  
  
“I suppose it is,” was all Gatt had to say with what Mahanon imagined to be a self-righteous sneer before walking away.  
  
 _Not mine._


	24. You're Doing Fine

That he didn’t catch sight of Gatt for the entire trip back to Skyhold was a blessing. Though he felt much calmer now and less likely to rip out the other man’s throat, he didn’t think there was enough diplomatic training in the world to keep him from not saying something rash. He at least had found a kindred spirit in that with Sera; the two had spent half the journey back to Skyhold hanging back from the main group and rolling their eyes at Gatt. Briefly during the whole ordeal Gatt had propositioned Sera rather blatantly and whether it had been for a warm bed or to join the Qun it was rather unclear. Either way it was enough for her to dislike the man.  
  
As Skyhold came into view however his heart hammered in his chest, watching the entry gateway with a mix of dread and hope, dangerous as that might be. He could only hope that word had arrived back from Wycome, carried so much faster by Leliana’s crows than it could have ever been by people. So when he saw Leliana’s familiar form standing in the gateway as the gate was pulled up, Mahanon couldn’t keep himself from running to her as fast as he could. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Iron Bull say, “let him go.”  
  
“What happened?” Mahanon blurted out as soon as he was close enough to Leliana for her to hear. “Are they okay?”  
  
The minute her lips turned up in that wry half-grin of hers, Mahanon dropped to his knees with a heavy sigh as the tension left his body, bending down to press his head against the cold stone. He knew before she said anything, but to hear it said aloud was a relief like he hadn’t known before, “They are safe and alive, Inquisitor. In fact, they are being regarded in Wycome as heroes and the humans in the city rose to defend them when they realised the Dalish were trying to save people.”  
  
The noise that escaped his throat at that was reminiscent of a sob, though he wasn’t crying. They were safe. His family, his clan, were safe. He knew it was perhaps only temporary, but for now it was enough. By the time the rest of the party’s footsteps neared, he had managed to collect himself enough to push himself back up to standing. Reaching out to Leliana, he grasped her shoulder and met her eyes. “Ma serannas, Leliana,” he sighed, his native tongue slipping from his lips before he realised. “Thank you.”  
  
She didn’t say much to that, instead just giving him that smile of hers before dipping to a shallow bow and turning on her heel. That she had taken the time to meet him at the gates, that she thought at all to ensure someone let her know when their party neared Skyhold, he could not express his thanks for enough. For a long time he stood there, his back against the cold stone wall, staring up at the sky though he didn’t truly see it. All his efforts and attention was spent on calming the emotions that had been roiling through him since he had heard about the events in Wycome. It wasn’t like it was the first time his clan had been attacked, and it wouldn’t be the last. It would never be easy to hear. But it was the first time his clan had been attacked and he was utterly powerless to stop it.  
  
Perhaps not utterly so. Leliana had been able to get word there quickly enough and truth was that he might have been able to get there in time himself, but when it came to the safety of his clan he wasn’t willing to take a might. He decided, then and there, that he needed to learn more about the spymaster’s craft. He would never be like her, he would never even be close, but at the very least he needed to learn about how the messages were passed.  
  
Eventually he calmed down enough that he pushed himself off the wall and made his way towards Iron Bull, who no doubt was around the Tavern somewhere. He was sure that Gatt had somehow managed to get there ahead of time and while he still didn’t feel particularly friendly towards the other elf, he didn’t feel in danger of living up to the stereotypes people had regarding “crazed Dalish elf.”   
  
“Hey, Boss.” He hadn’t even really been seeing anything as he made his way towards the tavern, but at the sound of Iron Bull’s voice he looked up and his shoulders slumped as tension left them. He didn’t regret his choice for even one moment, but he hadn’t realised until then that a part of him had worried that Iron Bull might. One look at the other man was all it took to eliminate that notion; the relief and gratitude on his features was too obvious to ignore.  
  
“Inquisitor.” Mahanon’s eyes shifted to the other elf ad Gatt came strolling towards them. “It is my duty to inform you that there will be no alliance between our peoples.” _Well no shit,_ Mahanon thought. “Nor will you be receiving any more Ben-Hassrath reports from your Tal-Vashoth ally.”  
  
“You under order to kill me, Gatt?” Iron Bull challenged.  
  
“No,” Gatt assured. “The Ben-Hassrath had already lost one good man. They’d rather not lose two.”  
  
Well at least they understood that the minute Gatt so much as twitched wrong, Mahanon was liable to burn the man alive. He understood on a rational level that Gatt had been in the same position – the people in that ship were his people, too. Even understanding that though, he couldn’t stop seeing the man as the one who had been willing to kill his men. The sight of Gatt’s back as he turned to leave was a welcome sight.  
  
“So much for that,” Iron Bull gruffed as he turned to face Mahanon.  
  
“I’m proud of you, Bull.” It was stiff and perhaps a bit awkward, but there it was. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it had been – or perhaps it had been as easy as breathing, defending his own – but either way he was proud of the man and thought better of him for the decision. Mahanon may have been the one to say the words, but Bull had been the one to blow the horn.   
  
The Qunari got a chuckle out of that. “Thanks, Boss.” A shift in the man’s gaze was all the announcement Krem got before a grumbled, “You’re late.”  
  
“Sorry, chief. Still sore from fighting off all those ‘Vints.” Turning his gaze to Mahanon, Krem gave a ghost of a grin and said, “Good to see you, Inquisitor.”  
  
“How did the Chargers come out of the fight?” he asked. They had seemed alright enough on the journey back, but he was no stranger to soldiers hiding their injuries or suffering graver wounds than they had initially thought. He certainly had been in a couple of pinches because of that.   
  
“Just fine,” Krem assured. “Thanks to you and the chief, we had plenty of time to fall back. Chief’s even breaking open a cask of Chasind Sack Mead for the Chargers tonight.”  
  
“Damn it, Krem, that’s the kind of thing you don’t have to mention to the Inquisitor.”  
  
“Sorry, Chief,” Krem muttered as they seemed to pick up the training exercise they had been working on some time ago. It was something so familiar that Mahanon couldn’t help but feel at ease watching it, a small smile crossing his expression. It was an expression quickly mirrored by Iron Bull as Krem successfully blocked his charge and pushed the much larger man off.  
  
“Ah forget it,” Bull said. “You’re doing fine.”


	25. Whispers Against Whispers

As it turned out, studying the network of spies and crow messengers that Leliana had set up was the best way to be informed of when things happened and where. It really shouldn’t have surprised him at all. So when a messenger arrived from running about Skyhold delivering messages to personnel, he should have expected that they would have been one of the first to know that a delivery had been made for the Inquisitor. Looking to Leliana with a raised brow, Nightingale took the parcel from her man before sending him back on his way. “From the merchant who had Dorian’s amulet,” she explained after a moment, handing the parcel to him while she opened the note. After a moment of her eyes skimming the parchment she gave a soft half-laughing noise and her lips curled into a mirthful grin. “It seems whatever you said to the man made him mortally afraid of being on your bad side. I don’t think I have ever seen an Orlesian write so many apologies in my life. What _did_ you say to the man?”  
  
“I simply recalled my adventures at the Winter Palace aloud,” he replied, tearing off the wrapping paper to ensure that the prize was within. Not that he really knew what it was to look like, but if it was anything like the rest of Tevinter he figured it would be obvious enough. The fact that the merchant had gone to the lengths to encase the amulet in question in a deep blue velvet box only highlighted how afraid he had been of offending the Inquisitor.   
  
Leliana laughed softly at that and idly he wondered what it would have sounded like if she gave a real laugh one day. Perhaps it was due to her many years as a bard or in the Orlesian court playing the Game, but her laughs always seemed to be…subdued somehow. “It sounds like all your lessons paid off.”  
  
“Well you know what they say, throw enough things at a wall and something will eventually stick,” he commented, closing the box and tucking it away in a pocket for the time being. “Perhaps we might be able to send him a letter in return in thanks. A simple ‘thank you for your assistance’ bit.”  
  
Leliana’s smile disappeared at that and the frown she now wore was utterly Orlesian in its subtlety. “That would be unwise, Inquisitor. This man attempted to take advantage of you through your…relation to Dorian. Any favour you granted him in response, even such a simple note, would be perceived as a weakness and others would rush to exploit it as well.”  
  
He gave a heavy sigh at that. She had a point and he would be a fool not to heed what she said as a warning. A beat of silence passed before he looked over at her and raised a brow at the pensive expression she wore. “What is it?” he asked baldly.  
  
“Nothing you haven’t already heard,” she said simply. “Your closeness to Dorian just puts us in a…precarious position.”  
  
If there was one thing he couldn’t stand about Leliana it was that she never seemed to just say what was on her mind. Occupational hazard he supposed, but it drove him crazy nonetheless. “Just spit it out, Leliana.”  
  
“I simply do not think your declaration at the Winter Palace was the wisest move, and it only made the rumours already flying all the worse.”  
  
“My declaration?” he challenged with crossed arms and a raised brow.  
  
“Whether you wanted it to be or not, Inquisitor, your dance and public kiss with the other man was a declaration.”  
  
“A declaration? Of what?” He knew damned well what but he wasn’t about to offer it up himself. Though it wasn’t Leliana he was mad at, he wanted her to hear her own words in her own voice.  
  
“That Tevinter perhaps has more sway in the Inquisition than is let on. That perhaps your decisions aren’t your own. We, of course, know that isn’t the case; but the whispers will continue in force now and there is only so much damage control that we can do. Pair that with your snub of the Qunari alliance…”  
  
“How is that even known?” Certainly he hadn’t gone announcing it and he knew Iron Bull wasn’t about to either.   
  
“People talk, Inquisitor.”  
  
He groaned at that and rubbed his face. Of course they did. They always would, wouldn’t they? With a heavy sigh he looked at Leliana and nodded. “Thank you, Leliana. I may not like hearing it, but I know I need to. Perhaps we can put out some propaganda? Have a few of your agents spread word – subtly – about the efforts we are making against Tevinter agents?”  
  
She nodded at that approvingly and that familiar ghost of a grin started to spread across her features once again. “Fight whispers with whispers? Certainly it couldn’t hurt. Josie might also be able to arrange some public meetings with some of those who have sworn an alliance to the Inquisition as well. If you were to speak openly against Tevinter and the Venatori there as well…”  
  
It was a good idea and he couldn’t keep the close-lipped grin from crossing his face. They were small steps, steps that wouldn’t have been necessary at all had he just caught feelings for virtually anyone who wasn’t a Tevinter Magister’s son, but it was something. “Next time we gather at the War Table we can discuss how best to go about it.”  
  
With a nod she made to step away from him with a meaningful glance to the pocket he had stored the jewellery box in but he stopped her with an outreached hand. Looking over her shoulder their gazes met and though she didn’t so much as raise a brow he said, “I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your efforts. Though I am not aware of what, I am aware that you do so much more than what I hear and I appreciate it. All this with Dorian… I know I have made everyone’s lives a bit harder with it and for that much, I apologise.”  
  
“You want to know the truth, Inquisitor?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“I actually think it is very brave what you are doing.” That surprised him and his brows raised almost reflexively, causing her to give a soft chuckle. “You may or may not know this, but I actually travelled with the Hero of Fereldan for a time. That much is common knowledge. What isn’t talked about however is that I was also a Sister at the Lothering Chantry before the blight destroyed the town and had run across the Hawke family members more than once.”  
  
Alright, surprising but he didn’t quite catch her point. Something she probably surmised from the furrowed brows. He didn’t know many women who were as direct as Cassandra or Helaine, most seemed to dance about what they were actually saying or feeling as though somehow afraid of giving it words, but Leliana was worse than most and so whatever lines she was trying to draw were lost to him.  
  
“I have seen the turns life can take, heard and sang the stories of love. But most importantly I have seen loss. If there is anything I have learned it is that you need to seize what chance at happiness you have, because it will not always be there.”  
  
He nodded and the arm he still had extended finally dropped to his side. “Thank you.”  
  
“Besides, if I believed for one moment that Dorian was the threat many whisper he never would have made it to Skyhold.”  
  
He started to laugh at that but at the dangerous glint in her eyes the laughter died. “Wait, you’re serious?”   
  
She didn’t reply to that and instead just flashed him a smirk and glanced once more towards the pocket with the jewellery box in it. “Good day, Inquisitor,” was all she said as she turned her back to him once more and walked away.  
  
Gods she could be scary sometimes.  
  



	26. Debts

Dorian wasn’t far away. As it seemed he always was, the other mage was in the library studying away. One day he really had to find out what it was that the other mage was looking for. Mahanon was always studying because he was suddenly thrust into a leadership role and expected to act as nobility with all of the knowledge and refinement of such, despite having lived in the woods for most of his life, but it occurred to him that he had never asked what Dorian was always studying for. It had to be something important.  
  
As he seemed to always do, Dorian turned towards him at the sound of the approaching footsteps. Given the way that Dorian had seemed less than totally pleased at Mahanon helping get the amulet back, he wasn’t sure how it’s arrival would be taken. Truth was, the two men hadn’t really even spoken much since that day due to a combination of Dorian seeming upset and Mahanon simply being busy as all get up. “Here it is,” Mahanon said and inwardly winced at himself. Even to his ears he felt like perhaps there was a better way to announce the amulet’s arrival.  
  
Dorian took the proffered box and opened it in silence before giving the slightest shake of his head and closing it again. When he finally looked up to meet Mahanon’s gaze he didn’t seem the most…enthused. “Now I’m indebted to you. I never wanted this, I told you.”  
  
Indebted? Mahanon blinked at that. How in the bleeding Void had he gotten the notion that he was indebted to him? “I didn’t do this so you would be indebted to me, Dorian,” he said and it was probably a good thing there wasn’t a mirror around, because whatever expression he wore currently he guessed that “horrified” and “mildly insulted” didn’t look good together. “I did it for you.”  
  
Dorian gave an exasperated sigh at that and shook his head. “That’s the problem.”  
  
“How is that a problem?”  
  
“Someone intelligent would cosy up to the Inquisitor, if they could,” the other mage said as he began to pace. “It’d be foolish not to. He can open doors, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power. That’s what they’ll say. I’m the Magister who’s using you.”  
  
Evidently it was the day for Mahanon to be shocked because he had to blink in surprise there. Really, he should have known that was what all of it was about, but it just hadn’t occurred to him. Dorian wasn’t upset about Mahanon trying to get the amulet back for him, he was upset because he had been in the social-political sphere of humans for so long. He knew that Mahanon going out of his way to retrieve the amulet for him would put Mahanon in a precarious position and wanted to spare both Mahanon and the Inquisition the hardship it would inevitably bring about. It was a lose-lose situation and the minute Mahanon had approached the merchant he had locked in whispers about the Tevinter mage’s influence to some degree or another. The validity of those whispers was beside the point.  
  
He should have known, really he should have. But he had been enjoying his time in Orlais and had seen an opportunity to help someone he cared about and just…jumped. While he could never truly forget that to the rest of the world he was “Inquisitor” and “Your Worship” he did sometimes forget that people saw him as nothing but. They didn’t see a man who had to train for hours just to ensure he lived through the next fight. They didn’t see the Dalish elf who had studied for weeks on how to conduct himself in an Orlesian ball just to ensure he didn’t completely fumble it all. They didn’t see a person who had feelings or relationships outside of the political sphere. All they saw was the mighty Inquisitor with the glowing hand. To many he probably seemed innately powerful, influential just for his existence.   
  
Still, it seemed like his words spoken so long ago now in Orlais were forgotten. Or perhaps Dorian had excused them as words spoken only because Mahanon had indulged in too much champagne. Either way, he was happy to repeat them. “Let them say whatever they want,” he asserted stubbornly, meeting Dorian’s eyes firmly. “I don’t care about _them_.”  
  
Dorian’s features seemed to soften instantly at that, tension that Mahanon had seen leaking from his shoulders as a soft grin crossed his features. “Naïve, but adorable.”  
  
Mahanon shrugged his shoulders at that as though to say “naïve, perhaps, but what do I care?” He had altered and sacrificed so much already: his clan, his old life, his mannerisms, his way of speech… Eventually a line had to be drawn in the sand and this was where he had chosen to draw it. He wasn’t about to not have a…whatever this was just because the public thought it a questionable pairing. Had he not possessed a glowing hand he doubted anyone would have thought much of it, but he did so they would. Mahanon was willing to live with the consequences of that though.  
  
“I…am apparently an incredible ass at accepting gifts.”   
  
Mahanon flashed a grin at that and raised a brow in a silent “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything but…” as he watched the man take a couple steps closer.  
  
“I apologise,” Dorian continued with a bow. “And thank you.” He closed the distance at that and lowered his head even as Mahanon tilt his chin up for their lips to meet. It was a brief kiss, full of sweetness and unspoken apologies, acceptance and affection as their arms gently wrapped around each other. They had both neglected to consider where the other one was coming from to some extent or another.  
  
Pulling away from Mahanon just enough to break the kiss, Dorian’s eyes roamed over Mahanon’s features. He wasn’t sure why exactly, but Mahanon had the oddest notion that Dorian was looking at him as though it were the first time the other mage had ever truly seen him. Perhaps in some ways, however, that was true. “I’m going to stop before I say something syrupy,” Dorian finally said, and his words were gentle even as his voice was lowered. In the back of his mind, Mahanon only hoped the other man wasn’t lowering his voice for fear of what other people would say. “But I won’t forget this…and I _will_ repay you. Count on it.”  
  
He wanted to tell the other man that no repayment was necessary, that Mahanon hadn’t done any of this for any sort of repayment. Something in the way that Dorian looked at him killed the words before they could be spoken though. Like it or not the both of them were prideful individuals in their own ways and he could tell just by the way Dorian was that the other man needed to do some sort of repayment if only for his own sense of self. It had nothing to do with Mahanon and the Tevinter mage didn’t think that Mahanon would hold it over his head like a debt to be repaid.   
  
As they detangled themselves from each other and Dorian took a step back their hands brushed, lightly grasping on to one another for a split moment before falling to their sides. Unbidden, the thought occurred to him that perhaps Dorian was so adamant about not owing anyone anything because at some point he had been made to feel like that. A person offering a favour, seemingly out of the kindness of their own hearts, only to lord it over him like a debt to be repaid later on.  
  
Only then did one of Leliana’s agents approach them and he could hardly suppress the groan as it occurred to him that the agent had been standing quietly in the shadows for longer than he would have liked. “Message for you, Inquisitor,” they said, offering him a folded notecard with a wax seal.   
  
As soon as they had appeared they had just as quickly disappeared as Mahanon took the card and broke the seal to read the contents. “Let me guess, someone needs the Inquisitor to save the day?” Dorian ventured and though he didn’t look at the other man he knew he was wearing a smirk.   
  
Mahanon grinned at that even as he kept his eyes on the card. It wasn’t a surprise, but neither was it the most welcome news. “You may want to pack your bags,” he explained as he crumpled the note and burned it with a flick of his summoned fire. “If this means what I think it does, we may have to rush out to save our Warden friends.”  
  
“What do you mean ‘pack?’ I never unpack around you.”  
  
“That’s probably smart,” Mahanon conceded with a laugh before turning and making his way to the War Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying it so far! Don't forget to comment and/or kudo if so inclined. :)


	27. Gotten

The news was as expected, honestly. The Wardens had finally been spotted, their location narrowed down to an old fortress in the middle of the desert. It wasn’t any surprise that it had taken their scouts so long to locate the group all the way across Orlais and given the provisions they would need to gather to make the journey quickly and the horses that would need to be outfitted, Mahanon and his party were set to leave in one day. It would at least be one day to recoup and prepare.  
  
From the War Room he had the runner they had taken to keeping outside when they Council was summoned bring missives to Dorian, Blackwall, and Cole of the plans. The Council had insisted that bringing Blackwall to a Warden fortress and while that could be true, his concerns regarding Blackwall had given him pause before he had consented. It was enough however to catch a look from Leliana as they departed the room and with the most subtle of gestures he told her that he wasn’t ready to discuss it. While Cassandra had noticed his misgivings regarding Blackwall he wasn’t yet ready to go sharing it with his Council.  
  
After the others had left he spent another hour pouring over the maps they had gathered before deciding to retire to his quarters. He knew sleep wasn’t about to happen for him any time soon, knowing him he would be up until the small hours of the morning reading over everything, and with that thought in mind he caught one of the servants milling about the main hall and requested that a plate of bread, cheese, and some fruit be brought to his quarters in a couple hours.  
  
“Actually, on second thought,” he added just as the servant was about to turn to the kitchens. “Would you mind terribly asking for Cook to also have someone bring some food to my quarters in the mid-morning?” Shifting a bit to indicate the rolled scrolls and book in his arms he continued, “I have rather a bit of work to do and doubt I will make it down for breakfast.”  
  
One would have thought Mahanon had paid the servant the greatest compliment the way they smiled at him. “Absolutely, Your Worship.” Mahanon must have worn a confused expression for a moment later the servant explained with a shrug, “None of us mind doing anything for you. You may be the Inquisitor, but you don’t act like it.”  
  
With a glance towards the dominating throne at the end of the hall, Mahanon raised a brow as he turned his gaze back to the servant. It got them to laugh, having clearly understood his meaning. “What I mean,” they elaborated. “Is that you always say things like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘if it isn’t too much trouble.’ You request things from us like we are your neighbours and friends, not your underlings.”  
  
“Of course I do,” he replied. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but all of you run this place. If you think I could do half of what you can then you haven’t heard Cook’s critique of my cutting technique and I think Sera would sooner shoot a fitted sheet than fold it. If anyone treats any of you like the dirt beneath their boots, come and get me.”  
  
With a bow and a laugh, the servant scampered off. Mahanon just shook his head before turning back to his quarters. He may not know the names of everyone in Skyhold, he would have been impressed with himself if he knew half of them, but that didn’t stop him from valuing them.  
  
Such was the way he found himself for several hours, bent over maps and pouring over the documents they had managed to acquire. The tray of food he had requested had been brought to the door of his room, announced with a knock as was the customer anymore. There had been an incident in which a serving girl had brought some morning tea and scones to his room unannounced and the sound of her padding across the floor had startled him awake, dreams of Corypheus and the arch-demon plaguing his mind, and without forethought he had summoned fire to aid him in the fight that only waged on in his mind. He had apologised to the girl profusely after, but not before she had run screaming from his quarters. Since then, it had been decided that no servant would enter his rooms and that all food and drink be left at the door. He had since brought the tray in but for all that he had partaken in it, it was more just a good-smelling paperweight.  
  
So when he heard footsteps behind him, he knew it wasn’t a servant coming in. Turning to face the interloper with a trained expression he found Dorian strolling into his room.  
  
“So,” Dorian began. “It’s all very nice, this flirting business. I am, however, not a nice man.” _Don’t snort, don’t snort, don’t snort_. That Dorian was asserting himself as a not a nice man was laughable to Mahanon. The Tevinter mage was practically a bleeding heart, spewing kindness and mercy all over the place. Mahanon was willing to bet that Dorian was a nicer man than he was half the time. “So here is my proposal: we dispense with the chitchat and move on to something more primal.”  
  
 _Oh_. Mahanon blinked at that. He hadn’t really thought yet on why Dorian had so uncharacteristically paraded into his room but for whatever reason, he hadn’t expected that.  
  
“It will set tongues wagging, of course. Not that they aren’t already wagging,” Dorian continued as he moved to step around and behind Mahanon. “I suppose it really depends. How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?” he finished, leaning in to whisper the last bit into Mahanon’s ear and sending a shiver down his spine. Dorian hadn’t so much as touched a single bit of him, only the other man’s breath brushed against his exposed neck and ear, and yet Mahanon’s body suddenly felt on fire.  
  
Gripping on to the table, Mahanon forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths to get his bearing. He wanted this, _gods_ did he want this. He had been wanting it for so long. So why did he feel so nervous? “I though you would never ask,” Mahanon finally said, turning to meet the other mage’s gaze and searching what he found there. He wanted this, gods did he ever want this…but Dorian had been so hesitant so many times on so many things and so he couldn’t help but try to assure himself that Dorian truly wanted this as well. He may want this, but he wouldn’t want this if Dorian wasn’t truly comfortable with it.  
  
Perhaps Dorian saw it in his expression as well because he said, “I like playing hard to get.”  
  
“And now?” Mahanon prompted, stepping away to get some space between them and turning to look at him and taking a couple of steadying breaths in case he found any doubt or hesitation in Dorian’s grey hues.  
  
“I’m gotten.”  
  
It was all Mahanon needed to hear as he reached out and closed the distance between them, capturing Dorian’s face in between his hands and seized the other man’s lips hungrily. A hunger that Dorian seemed to share as he wrapped his arms around Mahanon’s waist, pulling him even closer until their bodies were flush to one another. With subtle pushes, Dorian pushed Mahanon back until the Inquisitor’s back was against one of the posts of the bed, their kissing increasingly impassioned. As Dorian’s lips roamed to Mahanon’s ear lobe and neck, eliciting a soft sound from the elven mage, Mahanon looked up to the ceiling and gulped down some air before placing one hand on Dorian’s shoulder and using the other to gently pull the man’s gaze back to his.  
  
He wanted to ask so many things, wanted to be sure that Dorian wasn’t feeling in any way pushed. Sure, the other man had come to his room, but Mahanon had practically jumped on him just a moment ago. He wanted to make sure that Dorian knew he could back away at any moment, say stop at any second, and Mahanon wouldn’t question it but try as he might to find the words they died on his tongue every time he parted his swollen lips to give them voice. So instead Mahanon’s hazel eyes implored Dorian’s grey ones and he could only hope that the other mage understood. Because Mahanon cared about the other man, respected him, admired him, and he didn’t want Dorian subjected to anything that might make him even slightly uncomfortable where Mahanon was concerned.  
  
When Dorian gave the smallest of nods a breath Mahanon hadn’t realised he had been holding escaped him in a rush. And when the other man whispered “I’m sure” and closed the distance between them once more, all the tension Mahanon had been holding on to leaked from his body.


	28. Elven Magic

“You know, it occurs to me that most people would probably assume that _my_ speciality was fire and _yours_ was ice,” Dorian commented at one point in the evening, grinning as Mahanon as he popped a grape in his mouth. The two were still very naked but with their ardour tempered for the moment, they lounged in the four poster bed with the food tray between them.  
  
Mahanon seemed to consider that point for a moment, his hands laced behind his head as he looked at the patterning of the canopy above them. He could never quite figure out why, but something about the material fascinated him. “Why do you say that?”  
  
“Well think about it,” Dorian elaborated before popping another grape in his mouth. “What do most people tend to say about your demeanour and the way you approach things?”  
  
 _That I’m cold and distant,_ he thought. “Fair point.” If one was to judge based on that, he could understand how some might believe him actually a master of ice instead of fire.  
  
“Meanwhile even if you ignored the fact that I am clearly hot—” Mahanon turned his gaze to smirk at the other man at that, raking his gaze appreciatively over the other man’s naked form. “—I’m not exactly known for being subtle and hard to read.”  
  
“Plus there’s that whole ‘from Tevinter, land of the heatstroke’ bit,” Mahanon teased as he pushed himself up and took one of the biscuits that had been put on the tray.  
  
Dorian threw a grape at him for that even as the both of them laughed. “Maker you have an _aweful_ sense of humour sometimes,” Dorian chuckled. “No wonder you adopt the aloof mask.”  
  
Mahanon rolled his eyes at that even as he continued to smile, picking up the grape from the sheets and popping it in his mouth. “Got you to laugh,” he pointed out. “But I do see your point. Perhaps that is why it calls to me so much though.” This time it was Dorian’s turn to raise a brow at him inquisitively. “Certainly I wasn’t always so…guarded with things, but I clearly always had the potential. Being wild and unruly was always a bit harder for me than some others in my clan. Perhaps that is because I was expected to become Keeper.”  
  
Dorian’s brows shot up at that. “You were? You’ve never mentioned that.”  
  
Mahanon shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s simply how it’s done. The Keeper of Dalish clans are almost always mages, and the younger you present the younger you start to be groomed. It’s why many clans only ever have two mages at one time though it was never a strict rule for my own clan.”  
  
“So then mages tend to rule in all the Dalish clans as well?”  
  
“I’ve certainly never run into a clan who didn’t have a mage as a leader, though I have heard whispers. I suspect it has to do with our history. Far in the forgotten past it was said that all of our race were magically inclined, that magic wasn’t something we had but more but a by-product of being elves. So many clans tend to promote mages to the highest ranks to sort of…preserve those old ways.”  
  
“You said that people are chosen by how early they present…how young were you when you first started showing magical abilities?”  
  
Mahanon had to think about that for a moment. “If I’m honest,” he finally said. “I don’t actually remember a time when I didn’t have it. But I think I was about…six? Perhaps seven when I showed it enough to catch the attention of my Keeper.”  
  
“Still, that’s young.”  
  
Mahanon shrugged at that, grabbing an apple and taking a bite out of it. “Perhaps. I hear of plenty of children presenting at such a young age.”  
  
“Oh, I didn’t mean about the magic,” Dorian explained, his lips curving into a bit of a grin that Mahanon was starting to think was more reflex than anything else. Something he adopted during all his time in court perhaps? He had seen many Orlesians wearing the same expression now that he thought about it. “I meant for the whole ‘leader of our people’ bit.”  
  
Mahanon chuckled a bit at that. “Perhaps.”  
  
“So you think that fire comes more naturally to you because of how restrained and controlled everything else was?”  
  
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he admitted. “I’m also a rather impassioned person—”  
  
“Oh trust me, I noticed,” Dorian purred and this time it was his turn to look over Mahanon’s lithe form appreciateively. The elf couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that, though the grin he wore went from ear to ear.  
  
“—so I wouldn’t be shocked if that had something to do with it. I always feel like I have to throw myself into keeping that part of me…” He cocked his head to the side as he tried to figure out the best way to explain it in the common tongue, his mind tripping over the elven words for a moment. “It’s kind of like a camp fire,” he finally continued after a moment. “It’s easy for it to get out of control, but you also need it to stay alive. Sometimes you have to tend to it a bit more to keep the flames from going out of the pit you dug for it, other times you need to shield it from the wind to keep it safe.”  
  
Dorian nodded as he listened, continuing to pop grapes in his mind as he seemed to think over Mahanon’s words. “That would make sense,” he agreed. “Certainly I can see the same rationale applied to myself, though in a different way.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Well in case you haven’t noticed I wasn’t exactly made to blend in—”  
  
“You don’t say?” Mahanon ribbed with a chuckle, holding his hands up in mock surrender at the look he got from Dorian before taking another bite from his apple.  
  
“So for me it was always more about trying to temper that. Keep myself calm and collected when all I wanted to do was rage against it all. Steel myself against the expectations placed on me by everyone around. In a way, I was trying to make myself…cold. Thing is, living in a court, you can’t be too cold or it will go very badly. At a certain point you end up finding a veneer that works best for you, close enough to who you feel to be inside that it is believable and yet not you. In Tevinter especially some passions are encouraged, such as sex or ambition, but all others are discouraged.”  
  
“You know, sometimes the way you speak of your home country makes me want nothing more than to go and visit it myself,” Mahanon admitted. “But then other times it sounds like it is just as bad, if not worse, than what the Chantry says. Plus, you know, the whole Dalish elf thing.”  
  
“I love my country and it has so many things to offer, so much more potential than you can see from outside, but we aren’t without our faults,” Dorian conceded. “If I’m honest, I think that we could learn a few things from the southern nations. Not the least of the obvious problems being the slavery and blood magic that is so common. Sometimes it feels like my countrymen don’t value life the way it should be.”  
  
“An odd sentiment coming from a necromancer.”  
  
Dorian raised a brow at Mahanon for that. “It is precisely because I value life that I became a necromancer.”  
  
“Alright, going to have to explain that one a bit more,” Mahanon said as he finished his apple.  
  
“While I doubt that the dead are overly fond of their corpses being used in combat as a general rule, often times their bodies can be used to protect and defend the living without violating that person’s free will. There is no loss of life in it; if anything the use of corpses for fights tends to often _save_ lives.”  
  
Alright Mahanon could understand that much. The necromancer specialist that was at Skyhold had made a similar point and while Mahanon had briefly considered the specialisation because of it, ultimately his people’s beliefs regarding the dead had won over. He just couldn’t bring himself to raise the dead. As it was, he had once accidentally stepped on a grave while on the road and practically thrown himself off of it with quick apologies offered in his native tongue.  
  
“Besides,” Dorian continued after a moment. “I doubt the _elf_ practicing a school of magic that nearly exclusively protects the Chantry would make any more sense from the outside.”  
  
“In my defence, Solas says that it was actually an ancient form of magic used by elven warriors,” Mahanon replied with a wry grin.  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the elves claimed that of all magics,” Dorian shot back with a laugh.  
  
With a coy grin of his own, Mahanon slid the food tray to the side as he shifted on the bed to lean close to Dorian, gripping the other man’s hip possessively as he whispered into the other man’s ear, “Want to see a bit more of elven magic?”  
  
It made Mahanon laugh when Dorian shifted to whisper right back in the elf’s ear the words he had spoken before in that purring tone of his that seemed to always set Mahanon’s body on fire: “I thought you would never ask.”


	29. More

At some point they drifted off to sleep, or at the very least Mahanon had. He could only presume that Dorian had slept for a few hours himself as he cracked his eyes open only to find the other man gone from bed. For a split moment panic set in Mahanon’s veins as he steeled himself for the worst, though even he didn’t know what that would be. Shifting on the bed gingerly, his body sore from their rather rigorous activities, he searched the room until he found Dorian and the sight of the other man melted the tension out of his body immediately.  
  
It could have been just the fact that the other man was alive and well, so contrary to the images that tended to fill his dreams, or perhaps it was the fact that the man looked simply glorious in the morning light that filtered through the windows. He was an extraordinarily beautiful man in the first place, but seeing him standing in the light completely in the nude as the light shone down on him and bounced off small specs of dust… Mahanon committed each detail to memory.  
  
“I like your quarters,” Dorian said after a few moments. Mahanon couldn’t help but wonder if the man was aware of Mahanon waking up or if the man was simply giving it a bit of a shot in the dark. Considering how Mahanon tended to wake with a start however, he was willing to bet that Dorian had heard the elf wake.  
  
“Do you now?” Mahanon drawled, sleep making his words a bit thick.  
  
Dorian turned his head to better look at Mahanon sprawled across the bed. That increasingly familiar grin crossed Dorian’s face then as he put his hands on his hips and the sight of it had Mahanon exhaling a breath as tension left his body some more. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity. I just like your appointments.”  
  
Mahanon’s brows raised a bit at that. He honestly hadn’t thought the other man _was_ suggesting that but now that he had made it such a point to mention, Mahanon had to wonder about what was on the other mage’s mind. He watched the other man as he prowled back to the bed and sat down, looking over his features as though somehow that might reveal to him what was on the other man’s thoughts. “Ah.” There he went with that trademarked eloquence of his again.  
  
“Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes,” Dorian continued. “Your taste is a little…austere.”  
  
With a raised brow and a smirk at the other man he looked down at himself and waved his hands to indicate his body and the multitude of scars that adorned it. He wasn’t exactly the flamboyant type. As it was he still walked around in traditional Keeper robes whenever they went walking about, though Josephine had insisted upon at least making some of the pieces of a bit nicer materials and he pretty much left all the rest of his clothing decisions up to her.  
  
Still, it was evident that something was on Dorian’s mind. Pushing himself up so that his chest was nearly touching Dorian’s back, propped up on one of his arms, Mahanon commented, “You seem a little…distracted.”  
  
That got a wry grin from Dorian. “Sex will do that. It’s distracting.”  
  
Mahanon smirked in return at that, shifting to place a soft kiss on Dorian’s shoulder before replying, “I heard a rumour.”  
  
“Very well, you’ve rooted me out. There is something I want,” he finally confessed. Mahanon shifted to half lay down on the bed at that and as Dorian said his next words he shifted to take a seat next to the other man. “I’m curious where this goes, you and I. We’ve had fun. Perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing archdemons and such…”  
  
Ah, so this was what weighed so heavily on him. From what Dorian had told Mahanon it made sense; Tevinter didn’t exactly seem very inclusive of a relationship like what they had. Still though, just from the way Dorian approached the subject Mahanon could tell that the man was afraid. Though whether he was afraid of continuing it or that Mahanon wouldn’t want to continue it, he couldn’t tell. “Tell me what _you_ want,” Mahanon said and even to his own ears he sounded breathy as he reached over to take Dorian’s hand in his.  
  
“All on me, then?” Dorian sighed and it was all Mahanon could do not to offer more comfort, fully aware that this entire conversation was making the other man uncomfortable. For now however he could only offer a squeeze of the hand. Mahanon knew what he wanted from this but it was more important to him to hear what Dorian wanted.  
  
“Should it be all on me?” Mahanon retorted.  
  
The Tevinter man gave a heavy sigh at that and shook his head, but after a moment he relented. “I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise.” Their eyes met briefly at that and Mahanon hoped that Dorian could see all the affection and pride in his eyes in that split moment. He knew this wasn't easy for Dorian, but he had an increasing sense that Dorian had been given so little choices when it came to so many things that he was determined to make Dorian more accustomed to feeling that he could have a voice. That what he wanted _mattered,_ that _he_ mattered. “We end it here, I walk away. I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now than later. Later might be dangerous,” he finished, finally looking back to meet Mahanon’s eye a bit more steadily.  
  
“Why dangerous?” He had to admit that the word choice was a bit curious.  
  
Dorian had to break the gaze once more at that and the sadness, the absolute heartbreak, that possessed the man’s features at that made it a physical effort for Mahanon not to end the conversation there. All he wanted was for the man before him to be happy and safe, and whatever thoughts possessed his mind just then were neither of those things. Still, Mahanon had a nagging feeling that this was something Dorian needed to say and so he held himself in check, resigning himself to shift his hand so that their fingers were laced together. “Walking away might be harder then.”  
  
“I want more than just fun, Dorian,” he assured. Dorian’s gaze snapped back to his at that and Mahanon let a moment of silence pass before he commented, “Speechless, I see.”  
  
“I was…expecting something different,” Dorian admitted. “Where I come from, anything between two men…it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to.”  
  
Mahanon squeezed Dorian’s hand at that, catching and holding his gaze firmly. He wanted to ensure Dorian saw the fire and earnestness that was in his eyes when he told him, “This is more, Dorian. Right here.”  
  
Something in Dorian seemed to relax then. Mahanon could practically see the tension leaving his muscles as the other man gave a small smile. “Funny, I didn’t recognise it then.”  
  
A silent moment passed between them then, each of them watching the other in a silent, stationary dance as the two let what had been said settle in the air. Absorb it for the reality that it was becoming, the personal truths they had given voice to. Eventually Dorian commented, “Care to inquisit me again? I’ll be more specific in my directions this time.”  
  
Mahanon chuckled at that even as he leaned forward. “Show off.”  
  
Closing the distance between them, Dorian kissed him gently as the two fell back against the bed. At one point Mahanon could have sworn he heard Dorian whisper “more” but it was just a figment of his imagination, he was sure.


	30. If By That You Mean...

The best thing about the desert was that nothing caught fire. It was probably the most in control of his magic that he had felt for some time, and considering how out of control of his emotions were it was a good mix. The trip as it turned out was brief. Dorian and Blackwall had bantered between themselves a bit, sand got in very uncomfortable places, and Cole was Cole.  
  
Mahanon had tried to excuse the fact that the Venatori were present in the same place as the Wardens as naught but an unfortunate coincidence. The Venatori were, after all, practically everywhere he went. But after their brief chat with another of Corypheus’ lackeys it was clear that it was no accident. What was clearer however was that Blackwall had fucked up. During the exchange Blackwall had spoken of the Grey Wardens as a “they” and “them” …not the “we” and “us” that would have been only natural after so many years of service and recruiting.  
  
As far as Mahanon was concerned, it was the last confirmation that he needed. The ensuing fight was far too short for him to feel a bit more steady though he was proud of himself for not simply turning and snapping Blackwall’s head off.  
  
Cole, however, did _not_ help. Even though Mahanon strode several paces ahead of the rest of the group he could hear Cole in the back and was sure that the…whatever the Void Cole was… Whatever, he practically felt his eyes boring into his back as he said in that almost rhythmic, chanting way, “Heart pounding, fire in veins, must keep in check, not here not now. Lies, so many lies, why lie? Ah!”  
  
Cole stopped as Mahanon’s eyes locked on a small group of Venatori fighting a quillback. Throwing his hand towards the small gathering he hurled a fireball towards them, watching as it exploded. The impact was enough to kill a couple of the fighters including the quillback and the one that didn’t immediately die ran towards the party. With an outstretched hand to the rest of the party to signal for them to stay still he spun his staff and hit one man’s sword bearing hand to make him drop the weapon, summoning his own sword as he moved to stand back up and used the momentum to thrust the spirit blade through the attacker.  
  
That was the thing about spirit blades; most armour did nothing against them.  
  
“Sand burning my feet, but it leeches away,” Cole picked up after a moment. “Still burning, but not as bad now. Must breathe—”  
  
“Cole!” Mahanon finally snapped, turning to snarl at the other man. “Fenedhis! Stop!”  
  
Silence quickly fell on them after that as the continued to make their way back to the forward camp and he thanked the gods that Cole immediately stopped his eerie narration of Mahanon’s thoughts and feelings. By the time they made it back to inform Scout Harding of the events however, his temper had cooled enough that he didn’t feel ready to burst things into flame. It was the little things, really. Still, he insisted upon taking first watch that night.  
  
For all that during the day the place was the wasteland that it was so named, at night he had to admit that it possessed a certain beauty. Perched on a rock near the rift they had closed on their way to the fortress, he admired the way that the silvery moonlight bathed everything. In it everything looked softer, easier.  
  
“Something tells me you didn’t come out here for the sights.” Turning towards the voice, Mahanon found Dorian striding over to him. The camp was naught but the fire and silhouettes of tents behind the other man. “Pleasing as it might be this time of night.”  
  
Mahanon flashed Dorian a weary grin and scooted over so that Dorian would have room enough to sit down beside him. “Couldn’t sleep?” he queried as Dorian sat down beside him.  
  
“Truthfully, no. Not after earlier anyway.”  
  
Mahanon gave a heavy sigh at that. His behaviour, the way he had snapped at Cole, had been out of character and he knew he would have to probably talk about it at some point. “Just the desert heat getting to me,” he offered by way of explanation.  
  
“I meant more concerning what Cole was saying,” Dorian confessed, looking over at Mahanon curiously.  
  
“Ah.” Dorian simply raised a brow at him. The message was clear: he wasn’t going to drop this. With a groan Mahanon rubbed his face, debating with himself for a moment on how much he should or shouldn’t be mentioning. But as soon as he met Dorian’s grey eyes he relented. “I…don’t trust Blackwall.”  
  
“He’s not my favourite chap either, but why distrust him?”  
  
“I think he’s lying,” Mahanon explained. “No. That’s wrong. At this point I’m positive he’s lying.”  
  
“You might not have noticed this before, but everyone lies about something.”  
  
“Not about being a Warden.”  
  
Dorian’s brows shot up to his hairline at that. “You think he’s lying about being a Warden?”  
  
“At this point, I’m positive he is.”  
  
Dorian seemed to consider him for a long moment then. He could practically see the wheels turn as the Tevinter mage went over everything they knew about the man. He seemed to find enough to understand where Mahanon might be coming from because after a few minutes he said, “Alright, let’s hear it then.”  
  
So Mahanon explained. He explained all of it. How it had never sat right with him that a Warden so passionate about the history of the order was out recruiting. How a Warden recruiter seemed completely oblivious as to where all the rest of the Wardens were when literally half of the recruiting process was dropping the neophytes off. How every Warden had been affected by the Calling…except for the one in their midst. How Stroud hadn’t known who Blackwall was and even when the two had met earlier that day, he had seen no spark of recognition in his eyes. How Stroud was spoken of as the _one_ Warden who had slipped Clarell’s grasp and how Blackwall had spoken of the Wardens as though they weren’t one and the same.  
  
Dorian listened to all of it patiently and only after it was clear that Mahanon was finished presenting his evidence did he speak. “And here I thought only Leliana kept files on us. Still, it is a convincing case. What do you plan to do?”  
  
“For now I’ll settle for just not murdering one of my own,” Mahanon half-joked. “Once back at Skyhold I’ll tell Leliana and let her take it from there though. For now, I simply have too many other things on my mind.”  
  
“Wait. You’re telling me that I know all this before your Spymaster?”  
  
“Feel special?” Mahanon asked with a smirk, shifting to bump his shoulder against Dorian’s.  
  
“If ‘special’ is a new term for ‘suddenly concerned with the fate of the Inquisition’ then yes, I feel very special.”  
  
Mahanon laughed at that, giving the other man a gentle shove. “Go back to camp and get some rest. You’ll need it.”  
  
“Oooh, have some fun plans for me do you?” Dorian purred.  
  
“If by ‘fun plans’ you mean ‘dragging your ass to Adamant then yes, very fun plans.”  
  
The other mage gave a playful pout at that. “Not the kind of action I was hoping for, I’ll admit, but very well. Off to bed I go.”


	31. Diagrams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly when I started this I came into it thinking this was going to be 20-30 chapters max...now posting chapter 31 it's pretty clear that there will be at least another 20-30 chapters. Feel free to comment and kudo as always, I definitely love seeing it. :)

The fact that Adamant fortress was so close and yet they weren’t charging straight for it killed him. All he wanted to do was charge straight there and take care of this rising issue, but he knew it was a death wish to do so and for that reason alone he kept his eyes locked towards the road ahead of them as they went back to Skyhold. For all his relaxed stance on the horse, his grip on the reigns was as white-knuckled as they came.  
  
 _Within those fortress walls is an army of Grey Wardens and demons,_ he had to remind himself. No matter how formidable of a fighter he may have been, he couldn’t take on an army all by himself. At least he didn’t have yesterday’s emotions biting at his heels though. After talking to Dorian at some point during his watch he had practiced his stances a bit along with steadying his grip on using his staff as a Bo staff with one hand. Between those two things he woke up feeling less on edge, despite the gnawing discomfort at not being able to solve the whole Grey Warden issue right then and there.  
  
“So…a Grey Warden recruiter.” Mahanon’s ears perked up at that and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at Dorian. “That sounds interesting.”  
  
“It’s not easy finding people willing to shoulder such a terrible responsibility,” Blackwall answered.  
  
“Here I thought your poked around prisons, hunting for murderers desperate to escape the noose.” Mahanon did look back at Dorian at that comment, raising an eyebrow. Dorian simply grinned in his usual mischievous way at that. With a sigh and a shake of his head Mahanon turned back to face the path as the two continued behind him. He would have wondered what the other man was up to had they not just been talking about Blackwall last night.  
  
“That’s what you think of Wardens?”  
  
Again with the use of the Wardens as though he were somehow apart from that. It was far from proof, but just the way he talked about the Wardens…it didn’t sit right with Mahanon.  
  
“It’s not such a terrible thing,” Dorian assured and though he wasn’t looking at the man he could just imagine the wide grin on his face. “Some of my best friends are murderers.” Mahanon couldn’t help but wonder if he was included in that statement.  
  
“They are men and women—” Again with the “they” and “them” bit. “—atoning for what they’ve done by giving of themselves. They fight for people like _you._ People in silks and velvets. Who talk…and judge,” Blackwall practically spat.  
  
Mahanon gripped the reigns even tighter at that, clenching his jaw against the words he was itching to say but he restrained himself. He knew what Dorian was doing. He had confided in Dorian his fears and the other man knew that Mahanon’s hands were tied. So he did what he always did: he sacrificed other people’s views of himself for the greater good. If Blackwall came out of this hating Dorian more then so be it. The fact that Blackwall practically spat at Dorian as he condemned him rankled Mahanon more than he could say.  
  
“Who’s judging now?” It was such a tasteful admonishment that Mahanon was abruptly reminded of the years that Dorian had spent at court, the years that Dorian had learned how to dance about with words and come out the victor. And as might have been expected, Blackwall gave in to the taunt.  
  
“I know your kind.”  
  
“What _do_ you know of ‘my kind,’ Blackwall?”  
  
“I know that what comes out of your mouth is the same drivel that comes out of theirs,” Blackwall spat.  
  
 _That’s just vague enough to be useless,_ Mahanon wanted to retort. But no, he would stay silent. Dorian was doing a masterful job of drawing Blackwall deeper into a clumsy rage and for all that the topic certainly seemed far from the Wardens now, he wouldn’t interfere. Not yet anyway.  
  
“It certainly might sound that way to someone who’s been clubbed in the head too often.”   
  
“Careful I don’t club _you_ in the head,” Blackwall growled.  
  
“That’s what I’d expect from _your_ kind,” Dorian shot right back.  
  
He heard Blackwall shift, presumably to reach out and attempt the threatened clubbing, and it was at that point that Mahanon looked back at the two of them with narrowed eyes. “Maker! Both of you!” All eyes turned to him at that point and he was fairly certain they had lost their eyebrows to their hairline for how much he could see of them. He had been planning on just shutting them up and moving on with his life, but their utterly shocked expressions made him pause. “What?” he finally asked after a few moments of stunned silence.  
  
“Nothing,” Dorian quickly said. “It’s just…”  
  
“You said Maker,” Blackwall picked up.   
  
Oh. He had just then, hadn’t he? Turning his back to the two of them to focus back on the road he tossed over his shoulder, “And? What of it?”  
  
“Oh you know, just the shock of hearing you exclaim out another man’s name,” Dorian teased with a chuckle.  
  
Mahanon could only imagine the glare that Blackwall likely shot the other mage before he said, “It’s just that… Well I’ve known you for some time now, Inquisitor. I honestly don’t think I have ever heard you say it before. Not unless it was about some philosophical debate or some such.”  
  
He hated to admit it, but he was pretty sure Blackwall was right. Unless he was asking someone about their beliefs he didn’t recall a single time he had so much as uttered the word, and certainly never exclaimed it. “I’ve probably just been around you shems too long,” he said in a light tone in an effort to dismiss the subject.  
  
“Well now that I know it’s possible I’ll just have to word harder,” Dorian replied in that purring tone of his. Blackwall gave a loud groan at that, clearly thrilled with the insinuation. “What, Blackwall?”  
  
“Nothing.” Oooh did Blackwall ever sound pleased at that. Mahanon suppressed a snicker at that. It was clear that the way this conversation was now headed that Blackwall was immensely uncomfortable.  
  
“Oh poppycock, don’t act like that,” Dorian shot back. “I overheard you at the tavern, Blackwall. Asking about the Inquisitor and I.”  
  
Mahanon’s brows shot up at that and he twisted around in the saddle to look back at them at that. This was the first he was hearing of this. “I was unsure I’d heard correctly,” Blackwall tried to explain away and he looked as miserable as he sounded.  
  
“You have a question? Are your whiskers quivering with curiosity?”  
  
“I would not pry into the Inquisitor’s business.” Mahanon raised a brow at that. Was that the case or was it more that he wouldn’t pry into Mahanon’s business while Mahanon was around? Either way he clearly had no problem with prying into the business of others.  
  
“Are you certain? I can draw diagrams.”  
  
“No. Thank you.”  
  
Mahanon bit his lip from laughing out loud at the utterly miserable expression on Blackwall’s face then. Gods did he ever adore Dorian sometimes.


	32. What It's Worth

The conversation with Leliana regarding Blackwall went about how he expected it would. She understood where he was coming from, heard what he had to say, and at the end simply said she would look into it before dismissing him with a turn of her back. He didn’t enjoy it in the slightest and a part of him suddenly felt uneasy, but he would trust Leliana to take care of it however she saw fit. For now, he had other concerns on his mind.  
  
With the help of Hawke and Stroud they began forming a plan on how to infiltrate Adamant fortress and as Mahanon watched the little figures that signified hundreds of men, a growing pit of dread bloomed in his belly. There was no two ways about this: the upcoming fight would be bloody. The fact that it was going to take a bit of time to ready that amount of men didn’t help matters. It gave him too much time to wander about Skyhold, looking at all the faces that gathered, that looked to him for guidance, and know that he wouldn’t see many of them after the fight.  
  
He had led small groups before, but this would be the first real siege Mahanon had ever been in. This felt like war and he had absolutely no idea what to do. As a result, he sought out Cullen’s advise and made his way towards the tower. The other man hadn’t exactly been leading charges on the front lines or anything but he had survived the Blight as it swept across Fereldan and the debacle of Kirkwall. So when he found Cullen’s tower empty it shocked him a bit, but one of Leliana’s agents materialised to mention to him that the Commander was with the Seeker.   
  
One of these days he really needed to get Leliana to teach him how she got all of her agents to be able to seemingly appear out of thin air. For now, however, he would find the two people that probably had the most advice to give regarding this. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he remembered how Cullen had mentioned Cassandra helping him in his attempt to kick his lyrium habit, but until he walked into the black-smithy and overheard the two of them arguing he honestly hadn’t figured it was the cause of their gathering.  
  
“You asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?”  
  
“I expect you to keep your word. It’s relentless. I can’t—”  
  
“You give yourself too little credit.”  
  
“If I’m unable to fulfil what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this. Would you rather save face than admit—” Cullen’s gaze just happened to find Mahanon then and judging from the expression he wore, he was less than pleased with the fact that the Inquisitor had overheard the conversation. “We will speak of this later,” Cullen said after a moment with a meaningful look towards Cassandra before practically storming out.  
  
“And people say _I’m_ stubborn,” Cassandra commented with a shake of her head. “This is ridiculous. Cullen told you that he’s no longer taking lyrium?”  
  
Mahanon met he eyes evenly at that. “Yes, and I respect his decision.”  
  
A weight seemed to fall from her shoulders at that as she unfolded her arms and her expression softened. “As do I,” she admitted. “Not that he’s willing to listen. Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him. I refused. It’s not necessary. Besides, it would destroy him. He’s come so far.”  
  
It was the first he was hearing of this. Replace Cullen? Even if it weren’t suggested while they were at the cusp of a siege, he couldn’t imagine why he would ever do such a thing. Cullen was more than capable and while Mahanon didn’t always agree with the other man’s stance, he respected it. Honestly the fact that he didn’t often agree with the other man was part of why he valued his council so much. He needed people around him to challenge what he said. Too many just bowed to the will of the Inquisitor. “Is there anything we can do to change his mind?” he finally asked.  
  
“If anyone could, it’s you. Mages have made their suffering known, but templars never have. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself – and anyone who would follow suit – that it’s possible. He _can_ do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall. Talk to him. Decide if now is the time,” she said, turning her back on Mahanon to leave the elf to his own thoughts as she left the building.  
  
He waited for a bit of time after that before heading to Cullen’s tower again, figuring the other man needed some time to cool off after what had very clearly been a heated conversation with Cassandra. After running about to check on various aspects of Skyhold and checking on some of the guards, he finally made his way to Cullen’s tower. As it turned out, it had not been sufficient time for the other man to cool down. As he walked in the open door, Cullen hurled a box at the open door. It was an easy enough thing to side step it but he only caught a quick glance at the broken box and its shattered contents before turning to Cullen.  
  
“Maker’s breath!” he practically panted. “I didn’t hear you enter. I— Forgive me.”  
  
Forgive him? By the gods whatever for? The man was doing something most didn’t have the strength to do. Besides, how many times had Mahanon himself needed to throw something in a fit of rage? “Cullen, if you need to talk…,” he started, but the words died on his lips. As it was, he didn’t think he had to say more. For as much as he and Cullen didn’t agree on many things, he felt they had a sort of mutual understanding.  
  
“You don’t have to—” But the words were cute short as Cullen’s legs seemed to give out from underneath him for a moment, forcing him to catch his balance on his desk. Even still he held out a hand as though to keep Mahanon from getting too close. “I never meant for this to interfere.”  
  
“I believe you.”  
  
“For whatever good it does. Promises mean nothing if I cannot keep them.”  
  
He thought he wasn’t keeping his promises? He opened his mouth several times to tell the other man how he, at least, didn’t think that he wasn’t fulfilling them. Cullen had been a steady head at the war table this entire time and challenged Mahanon’s choices all the time. He looked out for their soldiers, understood them, and made the templars that followed them not only hear but also see how their ranks were valued. No Circle mage stood at the War Table.  
  
“You asked what happened to Fereldan’s Circle,” Cullen began after a moment. Indeed, Mahanon had asked that once, and Cullen had none too subtly shut down the conversation. “It was taken over by abominations. The templars – _my friends_ – were slaughtered. I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I – how can you be the same person after that?”   
  
Even with his back turned to Mahanon and huddled in the corner by his window as he was, the Inquisitor could tell how hard this was for Cullen to say. How could it not be? Mahanon was no healer, but all Keepers were expected to know some of healing so he had known for a long time how some wounds took longer to mend than others. The ones that you couldn’t see were often the most deadly and took the longest to mend. What made those internal wounds the most dangerous though was that the person who was wounded most often had to be the one to say they were hurting, draw attention to it somehow. Doing that was often times the hardest thing though; sometimes they didn’t say it because of pride, other time it was because they feared the consequences it would have if they did be the consequences for them or those around them. This was clearly one of those wounds.  
  
“Still, I wanted to serve,” Cullen went on. “They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my knight-commander, and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets. Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”  
  
For a split moment Mahanon was offended. How could Cullen ask that, as though Mahanon hadn’t been supportive before? As though he had somehow spoken against that decision at any point? But it occurred to him that the question wasn’t for him at all. It was for Cullen. A part of him was, perhaps, struggling with the decision. There was a chance that he was even somewhat hoping Mahanon would speak against it, tell him to go back on the stuff, but he wouldn’t do that. “Of course I can. I—”  
  
“Don’t! You should be questioning what I’ve done.” Pushing himself from his corner, Cullen walked towards where Mahanon stood before pacing back and forth. “I thought this would be better – that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me… How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause… I will _not_ give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it!” The last sentence came out of him as more of a bellow than anything and he punched blindly at his bookshelf when it ripped from him. But when he repeated it again, he sounded almost…broken. “I should be taking it.”  
  
“You give enough, Cullen. I’m not asking you for more.” It was perhaps a foolish thing to say, but right then he didn’t particularly care. Everyone had their lines to draw in the sand. Mahanon had drawn one when it came to his personal relationships; if this was the line Cullen wished to draw then who was he to say he couldn’t? “The Inquisition _can_ be your chance to start over – if you want it to be.”  
  
That draw Cullen’s gaze up and Mahanon could have sworn he saw hope in their depths. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” he admitted.  
  
“It is,” Mahanon assured, clapping the other man on the shoulder.  
  
It took a moment, but eventually Cullen let out a heavy sigh and said, “All right.”  
  
With a nod to each other, Mahanon took a step away and began walking away but he stopped himself at the door. “For what it is worth,” he said, turning to face Cullen once more. “I think you are giving us more than you gave the Chantry. I may have grown up with the Dalish, but I saw what could become of those who were addicted and gave in. And what I saw in those people…the only thing anyone gets from them is a cautionary tale of what could be. The strength you show in fighting this?” He shook his head and whistled low. “ _That’s_ an inspiration.”


End file.
